


kindle the light

by weatheredlaw



Series: natural one [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dungeons and Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood and Injury, F/M, M/M, Mild Language, Minor Violence, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-01 04:25:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13990440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: Church is a necromancer, trying to put right what his father made wrong. Collecting friends, finding long lost family, and babysitting literally every idiot he meets isn't exactly on his to-do list, but when has fate ever been interested in what he wants?Never. The answer is never.





	1. grim harvest

**Author's Note:**

> this is an incredibly self-indulgent fantasy au i started working on like two days ago and has spiraled. i promise i'll reign it in. this features bits and bobs taken from zelda lore, D&D, the forgotten realms/faerun universe, and _the old kingdom_ series. i'm playing fast and loose with D &D rules here because i can. enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Church gains a traveling companion, Grif and Sarge come to an agreement, and the paladins arrive.

_To guard yourself against the undead, you must try and do the following: travel only by daylight, put a river between you and what hunts you, and do not fear your own death. It is as natural and inevitable as the setting of the sun._

 

* * *

 

The village is devastatingly quiet. It makes sense, Church thinks. When he’d gotten word that this sleepy little town had been attacked by undead, he assumed he’d be walking into it on his own. Every so often a face peers out at him from behind a curtain, letting him know that he is not completely alone.

“Delta. How many, you think?”

The sword at his side hums with thought. “ _Living, or dead?_ ”

“Both, I guess.”

“ _Not as many as you’d think. I sense two._ ”

Church grips the hilt of his sword. “Same here.”

“ _The living greatly outnumber the dead, but their fear is palpable. I could attempt to calm them—_ ”

“No.” Church releases his hold on the sword. “I don’t want to cause a scene.”

“ _Like the last time._ ”

He sighs. “Yes. Like the last time.” Church glances around, spotting a shrine at the end of the path cutting through the village. There is running water in front of it, which bodes well. Not enough to deter something stronger, but he doesn’t think he’s dealing with anything worse than a couple of land-draugr. When he reaches the shrine, he realizes the door is ajar. It’ll be bad luck for him if he finds something strong enough to make it past the fountain and whatever holy symbols he senses are protecting this building, so he draws his sword, toeing the door open with his boot.

“ _A villager_ ,” Delta says, so only Church can hear. “ _Young, with an animal._ ”

“Alive?”

“ _Yes._ ”

Church steps into the shrine, and sees a hunched figure praying at the altar. A large dog rests at their side, tail thumping against the stone floor. Church tries to grab the door before it swings open too far, but it escapes him and hits the wall. The praying figure looks up and turns, drawing a crossbow and point it right at Church.

“St-stay back! I-I mean it!” The dog surges up, barings its teeth.

Church raises his hands, showing them his sword. “Look, I’m not here to hurt you.”

“You’re not...you’re not one of those things?”

“No. I’m here to take _care_ of those things. I’m Church,” he adds. “I’m going to make sure they don’t bother you anymore.”

“...Oh. Oh, okay. Freckles, down.” They step closer and into the light, and Church finally sees a young man, a half-elf from the looks of it, who waves meekly. “Hi. I’m Caboose.”

“...Caboose.” Church sheaths his sword. “And do you live here?”

“Yes, I do.” Caboose glances around. “People are afraid to come out, so no one’s prayed at the shrine in a week. I was worried if we didn’t, more of those things would come.” Caboose pulls uncomfortably on his shirt, glancing around. “It doesn’t seem to have done much.”

“Who’s this a shrine to?”

“Selune,” Caboose says.

“ _The Moonmaiden_ ,” Delta supplies. Church would consider it helpful if the sound of his voice didn’t send Caboose jumping ten feet back and reaching for his crossbow again.

“Hey, hey! It’s okay!” Church flicks the hilt of his sword, scowling down at it. “We _talked_ about this.”

“ _Apologies._ ”

Caboose lowers his weapon. “You have a sword that _talks?_ ”

“I have a sword that holds a _spirit._ That’s Delta. He’s...helpful.”

“Oh.” Caboose stows his weapon again and kneels down to look at the sword. He glances up at Church and grins. “Neat!”

Church sighs. “Okay, well you should get back to your house. I’ve got a pretty good idea what to expect, but I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Caboose’s dog pushes his nose into Church’s hand, then licks it.

“Take your dog with you.”

“Well...well what if me and Freckles help?” Caboose asks. “He’s not afraid of anything and I’m not either. I could shoot at things! Plus, I could help you find the last place we saw them.”

Church shakes his head. “I don’t think—”

“ _It’s not a terrible suggestion,_ ” Delta says. “ _It would save time, and a fair bit of your energy which, I should remind you, is in short supply_ —”

“That’s enough,” Church snaps. He looks between Caboose and his slobbering mastiff. They’re both huge, and gods know Church could use a little bit of a buffer between him and whatever’s out there. Not meat shields, but if Caboose is as good a shot as he’s implying, then it’s not a terrible plan.

He sighs and nods. “Alright. Show me where you saw them.”

* * *

The draugr are hunched over a dead rabbit in the back of the cemetery Caboose brings Church to.

“Can you get a clear shot at them?” Church asks.

Caboose frowns. “No. I need to go up.”

“ _Up?_ What the fuck do you—” But Caboose is already deftly climbing a large oak, disappearing into the folleage. Freckles lays flat on his stomach and huffs. “Alright then.” Church turns his attention back to the draugr, now squabbling over the last bit of the rabbit. He glances up and sees Caboose perched on a hefty limb, aiming his crossbow. “ _Caboose!_ You got a shot?”

“Yes!”

“Alright.” Church unsheathes his sword. “Take it.”

The first draugr goes down, and as it does, the second stands, looking around for the source of the arrow. Church steps out from his hiding place, firing a blast of arcane energy toward the two creatures, who shriek in anger. He needs to concentrate, to draw the gateway between this world of the living and the world of the dead where they belong. Whatever raised them is gone from here — necromancer or otherwise. The draugr are both up again, and they lunge toward him, but another arrow sinks into the chest of one, and a second the face of the other.

They hesitate, and Church uses his sword to draw the gateway behind them before using the last of his magic to blast them through.

“Close it, Delta!” His sword glows white hot in his hands, and the gateway is sealed.

It takes everything he has not to fall into the grass. Church feels two steady hands keep him on his feet, and he looks up to see Caboose grinning at him, leaves sticking out of his hair.

“...Thanks,” Church manages, before collapsing into Caboose’s arms.

* * *

He can feel the running water that protects him from the cackling revenant just past the gateway flooding his boots. It’s cold, chilling him to the bone. Church reaches for his sword, to ask Delta what’s happened, but the belt around his waist is empty. No bag of coin, no sword, no wand or book of spells. Left out here like this, without his power, without anything to protect him — it won’t take long for the revenant to realize this babbling brook isn’t enough to keep him away. Just past the gate, the revenant’s mouth opens, and its bitter cackle becomes a soft giggle. Then another. Then another.

Church opens his eyes, and three girls are staring at him.

“ _Hey!_ You leave him alone!” Caboose’s voice cuts through the remaining haze of the dream as the girls scatter. Freckles puts his entire, massive head on Church’s stomach, winding him. His head is pounding. “Are you okay, Church? _Arya, I said go away!_ ”

Church glances to his right and sees another girl disappear up the stairs.

“Here.” Caboose pulls Freckles off of him and helps Church to sit up. “I’m sorry. My sisters—”

“We don’t meet strangers very often.” A human woman comes into the room, grinding something with a mortar and pestle. “Michael, fetch me a teacup. And get that _beast_ out of my house.” She sets the mortar down and goes to the fireplace, hefting a kettle from the flames. “You got rid of those creatures, is what my boy said.”

“Your boy helped,” Church manages. He’s laid out on an old sofa, a worn afghan covering his legs. “Did he bring me here?”

“He did. Seems like you used yourself up out there.” She gives him an admonishing look that has Church ducking his head as he realizes — this is Caboose’s mother. “But, we’ll have you right as rain.”

Caboose comes back with a teacup and without Freckles. His mother takes it from him and pulls him down to press a kiss to his cheek. “Go and tell everyone that the danger’s passed.” Caboose nods and glances at Church one last time before ducking under the doorway leading into the kitchen and running out of the house. Church realizes the sun has come up and his stomach sinks.

“How long have I been out?”

“Just since last night. It’s barely nine, don’t worry. All your things are there.” She points to an end table and passes him the cup of tea. “Drink this. It’ll get your energy up.”

Church nods and takes a sip. “Thanks.”

Caboose’s mother pulls up a chair and settles into it. “So? You’re a necromancer then?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But not the sort that could make those things.”

Church swings his legs over, planting his feet on the floor. “Was there a necromancer here? Did they raise the draugr?”

“No, no. It was a strange fog that rolled through. Brought those two shambling into the village. Michael and some of the others drove them off, but they hunkered down in the cemetery and wouldn’t leave. We tried to find help, but no one would come.” She reaches out and takes his hand. “You were the first.”

Church doesn’t want to get sappy about having his hand held by someone else’s mother. Now’s not the time for sentiment. “What was the fog like?”

“Cold,” she says. “Smelled terrible.”

“ _Just like before_ ,” Delta says, from his place at the end table.

“Delta!” Church leans over and grabs the sword, looking at Caboose’s mother to apologize, but she only shakes her head.

“He was babbling when you got here. A talking sword doesn’t frighten me.” She stands. “My husband was a court wizard, years ago. Before we moved here.”

“Really?”

“Oh, certainly. Lots of magic in this place. Most of my girls have a bit. Even my boy.”

Church nods. “Well I appreciate everything you’ve done, but I should get back on the road.”

“You’ve somewhere to get to,” she says.

“Yes.” Church manages to stand. “I can’t intrude anymore.”

“Well, as much as I disagree, I understand.” Caboose’s mother stands with him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “You did us a great favor today. Everyone will remember it.” She smiles. “You gather your things and I’ll get you something to send with you. Just some rations.” She waves a hand and heads back into the kitchen.

“ _Just like before_ ,” Delta says again.

Church scowls, turning to the end table to gather his things. “Yeah, I know. Also what the fuck did we say about you talking to other people? Not every place is going to be like this one. You were with York for years, you didn’t have a system?”

“York was well known for his magic. You choose to keep yours to yourself.”

“For a good reason,” Church mutters, before tucking his spellbook into his inside coat pocket.

Someone clears their throat behind him, and Church turns to find Caboose standing there, wringing his hands.

“Um, Mr. Church? Sir?”

“It’s just Church.”

“Church. Right. Where...where are you going next?”

Church shrugs. “Not sure. I’ve got a few leads on some more undead just a day’s travel north.” There’s no reason for Caboose to know his plans, but Church feels for the first time in years like he’s met a first person he can actually trust. “There are other things I have to do, but it’s going to take time.”

“Right. Well...well I was wondering. Could I come with you?”

Church blinks. “What?”

“It’s just I’ve never left the village before, at least not very far. My dad used to take me to the keep you came from, when he was alive and he had business there, but I’ve never traveled. I’m a real good shot,” he adds. “And I’d be helpful.” He turns and ducks out of the room again before dragging Freckles back by the collar. “We can track,” he says.

“This...is your home,” Church says. “You want to leave your home?”

“Just for a bit! I’ll come back.”

“...I don’t know if I can make that promise, Caboose.”

Caboose’s face falls. “Oh. Are you...is what you’re doing dangerous?”

“A little.”

“Huh.” Caboose looks down at Freckles. “Well. We aren’t afraid,” he says. “Of anything.”

“Caboose—”

“We helped you kill those draugr, and we can help with other stuff, too.” Caboose stands a little taller, proud of himself. “You shouldn’t be alone out there. You just...you just shouldn’t.”

Church sighs. There’s no reason to bring Caboose. No reason to have a tracker, or a hunter. Or a...whatever Freckles seems to be.

“ _He has proven himself a worthy ally_ ,” Delta says. “ _A marksman is never a bad thing to have._ ”

“Right.” Church nods. “Okay, you can come. But you...you have to talk to your mother first. And all those...girls. I guess.”

“I can do that.”

“And you have to feed yourself, or whatever. I’m not gonna stop and buy you snacks. And if you bring that _thing_ —” He points at Freckles. “Then you look after it.”

“Right!” Caboose grins and rushes forward wrapping Church in a hug, _lifting_ him from the ground. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

Church wheezes. “ _Yeah_ , no problem.”

Caboose lets go. “I’m going to go pack. I’ll be so fast!” he adds, and rushes out of the room and up the stairs.

When Church looks to where he’d been before, he sees Caboose’s mother standing there, a sack of rations in her hands. Church opens his mouth to explain, but she raises her hand.

“It’s time for him to go. I’ve kept him here because I was afraid to lose him, like I lost his father. He’s wanted to leave for years now, but I was selfish.”

“It’s not selfish to want to keep him alive.”

“Of course, but...he’s very special. Very kind and...I wanted to protect for just a little longer. But I know that’s impossible, now that he’s met you.” She smiles. “You’ve made quite the impact on him.” With a sigh, she steps forward. “Here. I packed enough for you both.”

Church takes the food. “I can’t promise he’ll come back.”

“I know that.”

“You understand what I am. You saw those things out there. That’s the least of it.”

She nods. “Well, if he’s with you then I know he’s doing something good,” she says. “I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for, Church. Really. I do.”

* * *

Church goes back to the cemetery to draw protective runes over the graves, while Caboose says goodbye to his mother and sisters. He has Delta cast a few of his own spells before he returns to the house.

“Here.” Caboose’s mother loops a chord around her son’s neck. “For protection.”

“ _The holy symbol of Selune_ ,” Delta says quietly.

“Bye, mom.” Caboose kisses her cheek and holds her close. “I’ll be back.”

At his feet, his sisters wail over the departure of Freckles, who whines and licks their faces before howling softly up at Caboose.

“It’s okay buddy. We’ll see them again.” Caboose stoops down and kisses the tops of his smaller sisters’ heads before standing and holding the older ones close. “I love you guys.”

Church turns away, walking to the edge of the village to wait.

“ _You’re made uncomfortable by their affection._ ”

“It’s a pretty private moment, D.”

“ _Perhaps._ ”

Caboose jogs up behind him, grinning. “Okay! I’m ready.”

“Right.” Church points down the road. “There’s a city about the rest of the day’s walk from here. We’ll make it there and sleep for the night. You’ve got coin?”

“Yes!”

“Alright. Let’s get going.”

 

* * *

 

It’s been four hours since they found Sarge in the cave, and Grif already wants to fucking die — which is convenient, because Sarge has already tried to kill him.

“Can we just fucking _ditch him?_ ” Grif asks. He and Simmons are gathering wood for the fire, while Donut keeps Sarge entertained. “He’s a nightmare!”

“He _needs_ our _help_.”

Grif scowls. “I don’t _want_ to help him.” He picks up a hefty tree limb that’s fallen down and cracks it over his knee.

Simmons sighs. “Grif, stop it.”

“ _You_ stop it,” he mutters, and starts heading back to their camp.

Sarge looks up as they approach. “You pansies have a nice walk in the woods?”

“Just getting some more firewood,” Grif says, tossing a few logs into the flames. He checks the rabbit they have roasting on a spit and lifts it off the fire to cut it.

When Sarge takes a bite, he mutters, “Not bad. For an orc.”

“Half-orc,” Donut chirps.

“What’s the damn difference?”

Grif clenches his fist, opens his mouth to say something, but — he feels Simmons put a hand on his shoulder to calm him.

“I’m taking another walk,” Grif says, and sets down his plate. Sarge says something as he goes, but Grif’s pulse is thrumming in his ears. He walks until he can’t hear them anymore, then punches a tree.

“ _Grif!_ ” Simmons is _of course_ right on his fucking ass, running up to the tree and inspecting it before muttering a quick spell to fix it. “I told you not to do that.”

“It was like that when I got here.”

“Funny.” Simmons steps in front of him. “You have to give him a break, he doesn’t understand. It hasn’t even been a day—”

“You think I don’t get that? Because I do, Simmons. Okay? I’m just maybe a little sick and tired of hearing three-hundred year old _zingers_ about _tusks_ , alright? I’m done with it.”

Simmons sighs. “He’s out of place, I’ll agree. But, come on. You and I both know what it’s like to try belonging somewhere and not...not fitting in. Pretty recently, too.”

“It’s not _the same._ ”

“No, you’re right,” Simmons says. “But it has to be good enough for you to just...have a little patience.” He sighs. “Look, Donut’s going to explain everything—”

Grif groans. “Aw, man, we have to listen to Donut _sing?_ ”

“What? No, that’s why I came over here. When he’s _done_ we’ll go back.”

“You’re a fuckin’ genius,” Grif mutters, and Simmons laughs.

* * *

Donut knows a lot of old, _old_ songs, which makes it a lot easier to explain to Sarge that, yes, there was a war between orcs and almost everyone else about three hundred years ago, but that war is now over. No one feels that way about orcs anymore.

“Nobody?”

“Not really,” Donut says brightly.

“Huh.” Sarge glances at Grif, who’s kept his head down for most of this. They’re on the road again. Grif wants to find a place to leave Sarge, but Simmons insists he’ll be useful to them on the road. He has a talent for mixing up alchemical weapons, namely fire. They’ve had more than a few run-ins with a couple of hungry bears.

Over the next few days, they learn that Sarge doesn’t remember why he was in the cave where they found him, or who cast the spell that trapped him there. In all likelihood, whoever did it is dead. That’s Simmons’s argument, at least, though Sarge insists they track them down and exact revenge. Grif kind of likes the idea — it beats the walking, camping, and hunting they’ve been doing in a never ending cycle for two weeks.

One evening he heads out to set a trap for dinner and Sarge offers to come along. Grif’s about to say something exceedingly _rude_ , even for him, but Simmons gives him a look so he agrees. Neither of them say a word as they head into the woods. Grif finds a good place for the trap and sets it down, putting all the little pieces together.

Sarge points. “Decent craftsmanship.”

“My old man was a trapper,” Grif says bluntly.

“Orc or human?”

“Does it matter?” Grif asks.

“I’m tryin’ to get to know you, son.”

“ _You_ said that me being half orc was all you needed to know about me,” Grif mutters, finishing with the trap and moving on. He’ll set a few more, just the make sure they have something to eat. “Look, we don’t have to get along, okay? As soon as I can convince Simmons, I am leaving your ass in the first city we find.”

Sarge sighs. “Look, shit for brains. Donut...helped me understand. War’s over. Folks...moved on. And if they moved on without me, fine. So I don’t hate you for being half orc.”

Grif kneels down to set another trap, looking up as he does. “For real?”

“That’s right.” Sarge fixes him with a look. “I’ve come up with a broader, more acceptable range of reasons to hate you. One, you’re lazy. Two, you’re insubordinate. Three…” He trails off, making a long list of some of Grif’s more superficial character flaws as Grif sets up the last few traps.

“Anyway,” Sarge says. “You...seem like you can take care of yourself out here, so.” He sniffs. “That’s an admirable quality in anyone.”

Grif nods. “Thank you...sir.”

Sarge looks up sharply.

Grif wonders how long it’s been since someone called him that.

The walk back to camp is quiet, until Grif says, “My dad was human.”

Sarge doesn’t answer, and when Grif brings back the rabbits and starts to clean them, he yanks one out of his hands and scolds him for working so slow, but —

Simmons asks if they’re okay and Grif nods.

“Yeah,” he says, while Sarge tries to show Donut how to properly remove a liver. “We’re okay.”

* * *

Simmons has this deep, bizarre connection to the land that, most of the time, drives Grif a little crazy. It means they have to clean up their campsites until it looks like no one was there, and Grif hasn’t been allowed to chop down a single fucking tree since he started traveling with Simmons — which is stressing him out.

Chopping down trees is _cathartic._

But it also means Simmons sometimes senses things they don’t, and when he stops and kneels down to inspect the earth, Grif knows to stop everything they’re doing and see what’s up.

It’s saved their lives more than once.

Grif checks their map and sees they’re about a day out from Luskan, and turns to say this to Simmons — but Simmons is knelt by a tree, inspecting the roots and frowning.

Grif goes to him. “What’s going on?”

“Something’s off here.” Simmons pulls his hand away, and Grif sees his fingers are covered in a dark and sticky liquid. “And it...smells. Terrible. Can you smell it?”

“...Yeah. Yeah, I can.”

Sarge comes over to them and kicks the trunk gently. “What’s happenin’, tree hugger?”

“It’s dying,” Simmons says.

“Tree funeral?” Donut suggests, playing a few notes.

“No.” Simmons stands and puts his hand against the bark. “I can save it, but it’s just...happening so quickly. And it seems to be everywhere. Even if I can stop it from dying, I don’t know if I could stop it from happening again.” He sighs. “I could try to make this place hallowed ground, but…”

Grif puts a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t...push yourself. Okay? Like...it sucks the trees are dying, but if you can’t—”

“I _can!_ ” Simmons snaps, ducking away. “At least...I think I can.” He kneels down again, closing his eyes and pressing his hand flat against the ground. Grif knows Simmons is strong, but there have been more than a few times his spells have backfired. Donut takes a few steps back, pulling Sarge with him. Grif sighs and takes a knee next to him.

“You’re right,” he says. “You can _totally_ do this.”

Simmons glances at him. “...Thanks,” he says, before focusing on his spell.

Whatever it is, it seems to work. The grass around them is greener and most of the trees seem stronger. Grif helps Simmons stand and reaches into his bag to hand him a flask.

“You okay?”

Simmons nods and takes a grateful swing. “Yeah. I’m good.” He glances around. “Seems to have worked.”

“What _caused_ it?” Donut asks.

“Not sure.” Simmons looks around, obviously worried.

Grif doesn’t think they really have time to spiral, so he says quickly, “We’re not far from Luskan. We should keep going, maybe someone there knows something.” He hefts his pack onto his shoulder and figures it can’t hurt to walk the rest of the way with his great axe in hand. Every else seems to be on edge, too. Grif hears Simmons cast a quick spell over his staff, and Donut hums a few notes that Grif recognizes as his favorite wards. Even Sarge keeps one hand at his side, ready to toss those wild concoctions he’s been making.

It’s a smart move on all their parts. They don’t get twenty feet away from where Simmons cast his spell when Donut whistles for them to stop.

“Guys? Do you...see that?”

“Yes I do,” Sarge says. He pulls out his crossbow.

“Undead,” Simmons says coldly. “Everyone stay here.” He digs into the dirt with his boot. “We’re still on hallowed ground. If we keep here, they can’t come near us.” He glances at Grif. “I think.”

Grif nods. They’re draugr, from the looks of it. He fucking hates this. Seems like everywhere they go they run into this bullshit and Grif’s getting sick of it.

“I swear, the next necromancer I meet—”

Sarge chuckles. “Meet a lot of necromancers, son?”

“...No.”

“Yeah, they tend to keep to themselves, but no decent necromancer raises draugr for kicks.” The creatures are shambling closer. Sarge takes aim with his crossbow and a bolt flies out, piercing one through the eye. “Don’t just stand around,” he says, and lets another bolt fly.

* * *

They arrive in Luskan looking worse for wear and two more draugr encounters later. Simmons is at the point of exhaustion, and Grif can barely hold him up. The man at the inn takes one look at them, gives them a room, and sends up food and drink an hour later. Simmons is passed out on the only bed while Sarge mixes up some kind of healing draught and Donut pours some ale.

“Shitty day,” he says. His tone is as cheerful as ever, but it’s sort of nice in the face of bleak exhaustion. Grif slouches in the leather armchair by the fire and sips from his cup while Donut picks at his mandolin and hums. Grif feels a little rejuvenated — either from the food or the song, he isn’t sure. He glances over to where Simmons is finally sitting up, drinking whatever it is Sarge made.

“Feel better?” Grif asks.

“A bit.” Simmons lays back down. “What a day.”

“Yeah.” Grif looks back into the fire. “What a _fuckin’_ day.”

 

* * *

 

On a hill overlooking Luskan, two figures sit, illuminated by moonlight. One, a tiefling, tips their head back and looks up. “Nice night,” he says.

The other, an elven woman, raises a brow. “You don’t have to make conversation, Wash.”

“We have walked in silence _all day_ ,” he mutters, shaking his head. He reaches into his pack and pulls out some rations wrapped in wax paper. He passes his companion some dried meat. “Think those guys we saw on the road made it out of that last draugr fight?”

“Probably. Looked capable enough.”

Wash sighs. “We should go into town,” he says. “Get a drink.”

“No.”

“ _Carolina_ —”

“We need to keep out of sight.” She throws a quick glance around. “We’re no use to anyone sucking down ale in a pub if a revenant—”

Wash raises a hand. “Alright, _alright._ I get it.” He breaks off a piece of bread and chews thoughtfully. “Need to get some more food though,” he mutters.

“Fine. In the morning,” Carolina says.

Wash nods, reclining in the grass and folding his arms behind his head and horns that loop around and behind his ears. “You wanna take first watch?”

“Mmhm.” Carolina takes a jar from her pack and casts a quick flame inside it to warm her hands under the chill of the night. Wash always runs a little warm, infernal blood coursing through him. Carolina takes his other blanket and adds it to her own, wrapping it around her shoulders.

Everyday, the number of undead seems to grow. She wonders how much of it has to do with _him_ , and as soon as she thinks this, his voice comes to her unbidden.

_A river and a will is all that protects you from the Dead, Carolina._

She wraps the blanket tighter around her, glancing to the east and down at the small brook curving around the base of the hill where they’ve made their camp.

“A river and a will,” she whispers to herself, before turning away from the water to listen to Wash mutter in his sleep.


	2. guardian of faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wash makes a mistake. Tucker makes a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes.

_When you walk the path of Redemption, you know it is a difficult one. The world is dark and full of danger, and evil treads where peace should thrive. You are the redeemer, and you set an example all the world should live by: use violence as a last resort, show mercy when others declare there can be none, and pray that even the wicked can be persuaded to see the light. Always remember: the path of benevolence and justice is one that any can walk._

_Your heart and your mind must stay clear, for eventually you will be forced to admit defeat._

_But not today._

 

* * *

 

She’s let him sleep through his watch again. Wash sits up and Carolina is folding her blankets and extinguishing the flame from her jar.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says quietly.

Without looking up she says, “You need your rest.”

Wash looks down the hill where he can see Luskan beginning to come to life, smoke rising from chimneys and the sounds of the market opening. “I’m not going to kill you in your sleep,” he says quietly.

Carolina pauses, then continues packing up her things. She stands and passes Wash his bag. He takes it and stands with her.

“We should go into town and get more supplies,” she says.

“Right.” Wash shrugs on his bag and they start making their way down the hill.

When they reach the bottom, Carolina stops and turns to him. “If we don’t fix it, I’m going to have to be the one to kill you, Wash. Just...remember that.”

* * *

He doesn’t _feel_ like an Oathbreaker. At least not yet. Ever since the incident, as Carolina prefers to call it, they’ve been cautious about what kind of scrapes they get into. Carolina doesn’t want to invite any reason for Wash’s newer... _abilities_ to manifest, and he’s all too happy to avoid a fight. Doesn’t mean his sword arm doesn’t itch, or that he doesn’t run through his mental list of spells every morning, just remind himself there is still good in him.

It’s just...struggling, right now.

The last person they’d had contact with in their Order was York, over a year ago. York hasn’t responded to any of Carolina’s correspondence, and North and his sister, South, are too far away to be of any use, so they’re headed to York’s last known location, one of the Order’s towers on the coast. The Order of Light keeps various outposts in the region. Making the choice to go to York is both personal and a gamble. If he isn’t there, then they have nowhere else to turn. It’s a calculated risk, both Wash and Carolina know this, but —

What other choice do they have?

In the Luskan market, they hop from stall to stall, gathering supplies. Wash _really_ wants a drink — he’s been craving a cider for days now, but Carolina refuses to sleep in any town they pass through. She says it’s so they can remain vigilant, but Wash knows. If he loses control, they need to be far away from anyone he can hurt. He has only asked her once why she doesn’t just leave him. They were never supposed to travel together. Paladins of their order act as lone agents. It was a mistake that brought them into service with one another, but now she’s attached him to her side.

“We took an oath, Wash.”

It was her only reason.

“Right,” he’d said. “An oath.”

 _Use violence as a last resort._ _Any person can be redeemed._

_The path of benevolence and justice is one that anyone can walk._

* * *

Sometimes he cries out in his sleep.

He only knows because he wakes up, and feels Carolina’s cool, cool hands on his cheeks, as she whispers the tenets of their oath, again and again.

“Your heart and mind must stay clear,” she murmurs. “For eventually you will be forced to admit defeat. But not today, Wash.” She leans down and presses her lips to his forehead. “Not today.”

* * *

At noon, Carolina gives in and they stop in the pub for a drink. Wash spends a few coin to get them something to eat, while Carolina looks on in disapproval.

“We’ve earned it,” he says.

“We shouldn’t waste time. We have to get to the coast.” She stands. “I’m going to send York another letter.”

Wash sighs and takes a long drink from his pint. He spots the travelers they saw fighting draugr on the road the day before, hunched over their food and talking to themselves. A bit of a motley crew, he thinks — an elf, a half-orc, and two humans — but they seem better off than they did before. Wash smiles. He never got the chance to travel like that. Must be nice, to have that sort of brothers-in-arms feel. Their Order never felt that way. Even as they make their way to York, it still doesn’t.

Carolina comes back as their lunch is served.

“The next city over is Waterdeep,” she says. “I asked him to send a letter there if he gets this one.” She follows Wash’s gaze to the little adventuring party. “Thinking of ditching me?”

“Nah.” He picks up a piece of sausage, pops it into his mouth. “You’re stuck with the Oathbreaker.”

Carolina’s expression darkens. “Don’t call yourself that.”

“S’what I am.”

She scowls. “You just...lost control. It happens to the best, Wash.”

“No,” he says bluntly. “It _doesn’t._ ” He drains the rest of his cider. “I am not the best. I’ve never been the best.”

“You got angry. No one is going to fault you for that.”

“And what if they do? What if we get to York and he decides I’m not worthy. What if I pray and I pray and I _fucking_ pray, and nothing happens?” He hasn’t voiced this before, and it shows. Carolina looks surprised, and she reaches over and grabs his hand.

It trembles in her own.

“Your heart and mind must stay clear—”

He pulls away. “I don’t want to hear it.” The self-pity is normal, he figures. He’s been a member of his Order for ten years. He took the same oath as Carolina, he worships the same god as York. The symbol of Tyr around his neck doesn’t weigh any different from anyone else’s.

But still. He _is_ different now. He’s not the same as he was before. He feels it. The violation of his oath settles in his blood, different from the infernal heritage that lives there. Maybe that’s what did it, he’s thought more than once. Maybe his less human heritage is what pushed him that day. It only makes sense, doesn’t it? The world already thinks one way of him — Carolina’s never said it, but she probably resents being seen with him, a grey-skinned tiefling with glorified ram horns curling behind his ears.

Wash glances about the pub. No tieflings here. He misses being called by his virtue name — Fearnot.

 _Fearnot,_ his mother would say. _Another day comes._

He looks at Carolina. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I...I should have more faith.” He takes her hand, now, and she smiles. “Thank you for doing this with me. You could have left me out there, and...you didn’t.”

Carolina shrugs. “Well, it’s not all selfless.”

“Right. You miss York.”

She nods. “I do. Very much.”

Wash gives her hand a squeeze. “We’ll see him soon,” he says, and goes to order them another round.

* * *

They set out after lunch. Usually they stay off the beaten path, but the woods surrounding the road to Waterdeep are thick with underbrush. It’s sort of nice, Wash thinks. The sun filters through the branches that arch overhead of them, and Carolina makes gentle conversation. They’ve served in the same Order for years, rarely spoken before. She tells him a bit about her past with York, and Wash tells her about his sisters. He calls them by their virtue names — Reason and Defiance — and Carolina laughs.

“What’s yours?” she asks. Wash shrugs. “Oh, _come on_ , you’re not going to tell—”

A crossbow bolt pierces ground in front of them, and they both freeze. The road curves around, disappearing behind the trees of the woods, and Wash hears distinctly, “ _Run!_ ”

He recognizes them immediately — the little adventuring party from the pub that afternoon. Their druid is sprinting down the road, slinging spells over his shoulder while the others run ahead of him. Carolina takes off, Wash scrambling to keep up. He can’t see what they’re running from, so he grabs the druid, who nearly takes them both to the ground. “What the hell is going on?”

The elf babbles at him, mouth open and desperately trying to speak. “R-r-rev—”

“ _Revenant!_ ” Carolina shouts, and Wash hears it as her blade strikes the creature with a divine power. He feels the desire to destroy the creature rushing through him, too, but he knows his power isn’t as strong as hers. This is why, he realizes, why she didn’t want him fighting.

He’s not sure if he can do it.

Of course, that means he absolutely _must._ Wash rights the druid and draws his sword. The rest of the druid’s friends are right behind him. Most, anyway. Wash can’t spot their bard anywhere.

The half-orc stops running, planting his hands on his knees as he pants, “ _Where’s Donut?_ ”

Wash blinks. “Who?”

“He’s still back there,” the druid says. “I thought you had him! Grif, we have to go back, we have to get him—”

“No.” Wash holds out his blade to stop them from running back. “We’ll handle this.”

The half-orc scowls. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Just...stay here,” Wash says, and runs after Carolina.

The bard and the other human are there, huddled against an enormous tree while the revenant advances. There are two of them, he realizes, and Carolina is trying to take down the other. Wash isn’t even sure if she knows there are more than one, so he prepares himself and feels his magic reach down and into his sword as he runs and draws it back to bring down on the revenant’s neck.

It howls in pain, the divine glow from the spell leaving its mark. Wash grins. He might be an Oathbreaker, but he’s still a fucking paladin. He kicks the revenant as it tries to stand. It reaches for Wash and grabs at him, but Wash swings his sword again. The light isn’t quite as bright this time, the feeling of _divinity_ and _goodness_ not quite as strong. He shakes it off. This thing is just another creature, and what Wash knows about the undead it this: they can be given life, but they can also be killed again. Their oath demands they show mercy, but none of that is offered to the undead.

He realizes, now, that what he has is not enough.

“ _Hey!_ ”

Wash looks up, and the human bard is standing away from the tree, his mandolin gripped fiercely in his hands.

“ _Crawl back into your hole you undead creep!_ ” He furiously plays his mandolin, and the revenant moves toward him, turning its back on Wash. It’s a perfect chance. Wash holds his sword back, tries his hardest to channel the _last_ bit of magic he thinks he has left —

The creature strikes and Carolina’s blade appears out of nowhere, sticking out of the creature’s back. She grabs Wash.

“ _Take them! Run!_ ”

He nods and rushes forward. The bard is almost unconscious. Wash lifts him. “You, too!” he yells, and the other human runs with him, as fast as he can. Behind them, Wash hears the screams of the revenant as levels its final strikes on Carolina, but fails.

Wash gets back to the other two and lays the bard on the ground. “Is this...is this Donut?” he asks.

The druid nods. “Yeah.”

Wash sighs. He only has a little bit of magic left, he knows this. He takes the mandolin out of the kid’s death grip and sets it aside. “It’s alright,” he says, and repeats the same mantra he has heard for so many years. “Your heart and mind must stay clear,” he says. “For eventually you will be forced to admit defeat.” He grasps Donut’s shoulders. “But not today.”

The last of his magic drains away as he channels it all into this last spell.

It’s supposed to bring Donut _back_ , to heal him just enough to get him on his feet.

Instead, his skin opens up and blood begins to pour. Donut _screams_ , and Wash tears his hands away.

“ _No!_ ” Carolina runs toward them, falling to her knees at Donut’s side. “Wash, what did you _do?_ ”

“I didn’t—”

She takes Donut’s face in her hands and closes her eyes. Her palms glow with white light, exactly what Wash’s _should_ have done, as her magic closes the wounds in his skin and begins to heal him. Wash stumbles back.

That’s not what he meant to do. That’s not what the spell _should have done._

Donut stops screaming, head hanging limply between Carolina’s hands.

She sets him gently on the ground, before slowly turning to look at Wash.

His own hands are covered in blood. “I...I didn’t mean—” His heart is hammering in his chest. None of the others seem to care about him as they surround their friend and try to rouse him. Carolina stands and closes the space between herself and Wash. He thinks, for a moment, that this is the part where she kills him. He has surely slipped too far.

Gently, she reaches down and takes _his_ face, now, into her hands. “Sleep,” she says.

And Wash does.

 

* * *

 

Church learns...a _lot_ , about Caboose.

He learns that Freckles is _probably_ a dog, but Caboose isn’t totally sure since he sort of appeared from nowhere one day. He learns that Caboose has twelve sisters, and that his father was an elf. He learns that Caboose’s father became very ill and passed very suddenly. He learns that Caboose’s favorite color is blue, and he prays at the shrine almost every day. All of this is told to him at a rapid fire pace as Church struggles to keep up with him as they make their way down the road. Caboose is... _tall._ Very tall.

But he doesn’t have as endless an amount of energy as Church thought. As nightfall approaches he begins to slow, growing quiet as the sun goes down. They wind up in Westgate for the evening, but the town isn’t as sleepy as Church had hoped. The square is full of people, murmuring to one another, pointing toward a large stage.

Church pulls on Caboose’s tunic. “What’s happening?”

Caboose, towering over most of the crowd, still stands on the toes of his boots to see. “Uh, here.” He bends down and hefts Church up by the waist.

“ _What the f_ — oh. Oh, this is nice. Thanks.” Church squints. He needs his fucking glasses, but he can tell. Someone’s being tried and sentenced. “Down,” he says. Caboose nods and sets him on his feet. “Come on, let’s get closer.”

Church maneuvers through the crowd, Caboose and Freckles right behind him. As they get closer to the stage, they can see a young man in manacles, glaring _furiously_ at a man who appears to be the viscount.

“ _You_ , Lavernius Tucker, are on trial for...for—” The viscount’s face grows beet red. “ _For having relations with my daughter_ —”

“Oh, _come on_ ,” Tucker says. “Get _over_ it.”

This doesn’t seem to help. The viscount actually _stomps_ his feet, cheeks puffing out in anger. Church thinks he might actually exploud. “ _Your punishment is the tower!_ ” he screeches, and Tucker’s face falls.

A murmur ripples through the crowd.

“Hey,” Tucker says weakly. “ _Hey,_ come on. I mean—” He swallows thickly. “I _said_ I was sorry.”

“It is too late for apologies, _bard._ The tower, tomorrow morning.”

Two guards grab Tucker by the arms. He immediately begins to fight. “Listen, you _asshole!_ You can’t send me to the _fucking_ tower. I have a _kid_ , okay? Like...like I have to get _home_ —”

“You should have thought of _that_ before you brought your troublesome self here,” the viscount says, and turns to walk off the stage.

Church can hear Tucker yelling all the way back to wherever they’re keeping him, and the crowd begins to disperse, shaking their heads.

Caboose looks at Church, concerned. “Should we help him?”

“Not sure what we could do,” Church says. “Seems pretty final. Come on, let’s find a place to stay.”

“I can think of a way to help,” someone says.

Church turns and sees a woman walking toward them. “You can, huh?”

She nods. “The tower is a place of restless undead. There are too many for any one man to take on alone, but…” She reaches out and pushes Church’s coat to the side, revealing his spellbook. “A necromancer might be able to help.”

Church steps back. “I’m sure one would, if one were around.”

“You’re not a very good liar,” the woman says, and waves for him to follow. Church looks up at Caboose who shrugs and heads after her.

Church throws his hands up. “ _Fine._ ”

* * *

The woman calls herself Connie. Her home is small, and she has a holy symbol hanging on her wall that looks familiar.

“ _York_ ,” Delta says, so only Church can hear. “ _She hasn’t seen me yet. Tread cautiously._ ” Church puts a hand on the hilt of the sword, keeping it out of sight once they sit at the table.

Connie makes them tea and gives Freckles a large bone to chew on. She sits across from Church. “I’m good at remembering faces,” she says. “A few months ago, a man who looked...quite a bit like you passed through. I thought you might have been him. Any guess beyond that was just...lucky.”

Church throat grows tight. He swallows. “A man who looked like me.”

“Yes. Older, though. Different eyes.” She sips her tea.

“May I have some sugar?” Caboose asks. Connie nods and passes him the bowl.

“What did he _want_?”

“He wanted to know about the tower. He asked everywhere. I own the apothecary shop next door, he stopped in for a few ingredients.”

“What, exactly?”

“Vervain, a bit of saffron.” She takes the sugar bowl from Caboose who has been consistently spooning some into his cup since she gave it to him. “He was interested in where the tower had come from. I told him it had always been here, but the state it’s in is rather...new. Just in the last year or so. _That_ he seemed very interested in.”

“Did he go there?”

“I don’t know. He left in a hurry.”

“How did you know he was a necromancer?”

“Like I said. A lot of guesses on my part have been pretty lucky. Not many people other than necromancers are interested in the tower.” She leans forward. “They’re going to send the bard there alone. He’ll die. If you go to the viscount and offer him a solution, he’ll give you a chance. He’s desperate enough.”

Church sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. I don’t really _need_ anymore, ah... _friends_ ,” he says, glancing at Caboose.

“The bard shouldn’t die,” Connie says. “It’s as simple as that. As a necromancer, your connection with _life_ should be as strong as the one you have with death.”

Church looks toward Caboose, happily sipping tea and eating from the plate of cookies Connie set out. She isn’t wrong. If he focuses, Church can sense the energy given off by the restless undead. Whatever raised them was powerful, if they’re still able to kill a man a year later. Probably a gateway left open, allowing them to pour into the living world freely.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll do it.”

* * *

It’s easy to convince the viscount he should let them have Tucker. He’s eager to get rid of him.

The viscount mops his brow. “It was...a fit of passion, that sent the bard to the tower. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Happens to us all,” Church says dryly.

“You may have him in the morning. _One_ night in a cell will be good for him,” the viscount mutters, and dismisses them.

Church gets them a room at the inn with two beds, and Caboose sits on the edge of his, looking around. “Doing okay?” Church asks.

“Hm? Oh, yes! This is fun.” Caboose tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Church takes off his coat. “You miss your family.”

“...A little.”

Church sits on the edge of his own bed. “Well...you can always go back, but—” He glances at him. “I know you don’t want to.”

“I don’t,” Caboose insists. “But... but yeah. I miss them.”

“Your mother was very kind.”

Caboose nods. “Yeah...she’s pretty great.” He turns to Church. “Connie said...she said someone came here and he looked like you. But you didn’t tell her if you knew him.”

Church stands quickly. “Don’t worry about what she said.”

“But is it important?”

“No.” Church sets his spellbook on the bedside table. “If something is important, I’ll tell you.” he says. He toes off his boots. “Get some sleep, Caboose.”

* * *

Church and Caboose wake up early to go fetch Tucker from the cells. His hair is disheveled and the clothes he wears look like they’ve seen better, much cleaner, days. He takes his things from the guards and scowls, shielding his eyes as he follows Church outside.

“What the fuck is happening?”

Church sighs. “We’re making sure you don’t die. A _thank you_ would go a long way.”

“Hey, I’d have gotten out just fine on my own. Who the fuck are you guys?”

“I’m Church. This is Caboose.”

Tucker snorts. “Wow. _Amazing._ ” He digs through his pack as they walk. “Hey, I need to, like, _change._ I smell like shit.”

“Yes,” Caboose says brightly. “You do.”

“Changing is going to have to wait,” Church says loudly, before Tucker can say something. “We have to work on that tower.”

Tucker stops. “...No. No way.”

“Yeah, that was part of the deal. I take you off the viscount’s hands, I clear out the tower, and _you_ never come back here again.” Church looks over his shoulder. “What did you even do?”

“He had relations with the viscount’s daughter,” Caboose says helpfully. “Remember?”

“ _Relations_ ,” Tucker mutters.

Church raises a brow. “Was it worth it?”

“Oh, man. Totally.”

“Really?” Caboose asks.

Tucker sighs. “...Eh.” He slings his pack over his shoulder. “Alright, _fine_ ,” he mutters. “What are we doing, exactly?”

Church rests a hand on the hilt of his sword. “The tower is full of undead. _I_ am going to perform a ritual which will, hopefully, take care of that.”

“You’re a necromancer,” Tucker says.

“Wow. What an incredible observation.” They pass under the gates to the town. “Look, I’m not going to need you guys to do much except keep a crossbow trained on the tower.” He looks Tucker up and down. “Do you have anything _useful?_ ”

Tucker laughs and reaches into his bag which, upon inspection Church realizes is most definitely enchanted. His arm seems to reach further and further, until Tucker stops, sets the bag down, and puts his entire upper body into it.

“Ah!” Caboose points. “What is _that?_ ”

“Bag of holding,” Church says. He’s admittedly, a little impressed.

Tucker finally emerges, pulling out a lyre. “Hell yeah I have something.” He strums a few notes and begins singing. To Church’s surprise, Caboose does, too.

“You know this?”

“Yes! It’s a harvesting song,” Caboose says, and he falls to the back with Tucker.

It’s kind of nice, Church will admit. They’re both idiots, of course, there’s no doubt about that. But at least one can shoot and the other can carry things, if nothing else.

When they finally reach the tower, everyone grows quiet.

Necromantic energy pours off the place in waves. Church tries to get a sense for who’s been here, but it’s shrouded by the presence of the undead. There’s definitely a gateway open inside, Church can feel it.

He glances at Tucker and Caboose. “We’re going to have to go in.”

“ _What?_ ” Tucker steps back. “No way, man. Uh-uh. I thought you were _saving_ me from that thing.”

“And I thought _you_ could have gotten out on your own.”

“I could have!” Tucker shouts. “And if I had, I’d been long fuckin’ gone from here by now. No way, dude. You two can do this on your own.”

Church pinches the bridge of his nose. “...I will _pay you_ ,” he says.

Tucker stops backing away. “...How much?”

“Two hundred.”

“Three.”

“Four!” Caboose says.

Church shushes him. “Two _fifty._ And that’s it, man.”

Tucker considers this for a moment before nodding. “Alright. Two fifty.” He sets down his bag again, diving into it and emerging with a rapier. He buckles it around his waist and unsheathes it. It’s beautiful, Church thinks. The colors in the metal seem to shift as Tucker gives it a few practice swings and they head closer to the tower. Caboose readies his crossbow and grips the symbol of Selune around his neck.

“ _There may be too many_ ,” Delta says privately. Church doesn’t answer. He knows who was here before, and he knows what happened to this tower. Someone else may be the reason this place is broken, but Church’ll be damned if he’s the reason it stays that way.

The energy of the open gateway grows heavier as they approach, and the smell is terrible. Tucker coughs and brings his shirt up to cover his mouth.

“What the hell is this?”

“A mistake,” Church says. He draws his blade. “Delta, tell me what’s happening.”

“ _There are five floors in the tower. The gate appears to be at the very top. I’m sensing a large number of draugr here on the bottom floor. It would be wise to allow your newest companion to perhaps—_ ” Delta doesn’t get a chance to finish. The door to the tower bursts open, and a wave of draugr tumble out, grabbing and screeching.

“ _Son of a bitch!_ ” Church shouts and begins swinging his sword. He has a hundred years of the best magical education you can get under his belt, but all he can think to do is hack and _slash._ There are too many of them, he realizes. He’s brought Tucker and Caboose here to be killed, and it’s all his fault.

Just another thing that’s all his fault.

“ _This! Fucking! Sucks!_ ” he hears Tucker shout. His rapier flashes in the sunlight. Church sees it go flying in his peripheral, spearing two draugr before it appears back in Tucker’s hand. The academic part of his brain wants to know how he did that, where the hell he _got it_ —

“ _You must focus!_ ” Delta insists. “ _Drive them back inside, don’t let them escape!_ ”

“Right!” Church begins focusing on getting the draugr back through the doorway, and Tucker and Caboose begin to do the same. When they finally drive the last one in, Church turns and bolts the door behind them.

“Did you just lock us in here?” Tucker yells, flinging his rapier toward a group of the draugr. They scream in pain and the blade comes back to him. “Like are you for fucking real?”

“We _have_ to close the gateway!” Church shouts. “If we don’t, then more will come. They won’t _stop_ , Tucker!”

“I fucking get that, but we are going to _fucking_ die!” He spears another on his blade.

Church knows this is true, he knows _objectively_ that this is true, but he has to do this. It’s gone on long enough.

“Look, I know—” He stops. The cold feeling of a revenant entering the room strikes his heart, and Church turns to see it advancing on Caboose, who is doing his best to keep his crossbow firing. “ _Caboose!_ ” Church throws out his hand to cast a spell — something, _anything_ that will keep this dumb kid from dying —

Caboose raises his arm against the revenant — and everything goes still.

Everything — the revenant, the draugr, the very air in the room. Except them. Church steps toward Caboose. He’s bathed in a pale light, the symbol around his neck growing brighter and brighter still. He brings his arm down and touches it, looking over his shoulder at Church.

“I don’t understand.”

“Join the club,” Tucker mutters, just as a figure begins pushing their way out of the symbol. It seems to grasp the edges with two small, glowing hands, before tumbling out and growing larger and larger in front of them. Silver and feminine, the figure finally stops growing and hovers in the air, turning around and smiling.

“ _The Moonmaiden_ ,” Delta says.

The figure laughs. “Not quite.” She reaches down and touches Caboose’s cheek. “I am a guardian of faith. A shield.”

“Sheila?” Caboose asks, and she laughs.

“No, Caboose. But you may call me that, if you’d like. You have been very faithful, haven’t you?”

“I’ve tried,” Caboose says weakly. “I’ve tried so hard.”

“And your faith is rewarded.” Sheila looks at Church. “It wasn’t you who opened this gate, was it, necromancer?”

“No,” Church says.

“It has been open for some time. It will have grown stronger. You seek to right that which has been made wrong. A worthy goal,” she says. She turns to Caboose. “Touch the ground, and close your eyes.” Sheila looks at Church. “Run.”

Church grabs Tucker and pulls him out of the tower as Caboose kneels and presses his hand flat against the stone floor of the tower.

Tucker keeps looking back. “What’s happening—”

“Tucker just _run!_ ”

“But what—”

The blast of Caboose’s hallowing spell sends them flying forward. Church feels the warmth of it hit his back as they both lay face down in the dirt. The sounds of draugr and revenant shrieking fills the air, and it seems to last forever until —

Silence.

Church puts a hand on the ground, and no longer feels the presence of the dead. The gate is still open, but its hold on this plane is weak, now. He scrambles to his feet and runs inside, taking the stairs two at a time until he reaches the very top. Sheila is hovering in front of the gate.

“Who did this?” she asks.

“Someone stronger than me.”

She turns to him. “They’re dangerous. This cannot happen again.”

“I can’t promise that,” Church says. Gods, he _hates_ having to say it.

Sheila nods. “I understand.” She moves back. “Close it then, Leonard Church.”

The sound of his full name rattles him, but there’s no time for that. “Right.” He holds out his sword. “Delta—”

“ _Let that which has been opened be closed_ ,” Delta intones. “ _Let those who walk the path of evil see the light. Let even creatures of wickedness find their way to redemption._ ” Church closes his eyes. This isn’t his oath, isn’t his way or his path — it was York’s, and Delta clings to it.

“ _Let your heart and mind be open_ ,” Delta says. “ _For eventually you will be forced to admit defeat._ ”

Church opens his eyes and finishes the oath. “But not today.”

Delta hums. “ _But not today._ ”

* * *

Downstairs, Tucker is sitting next to Caboose, plucking his lyre and humming a few notes of healing to rouse him. Sheila touches Church’s shoulder, sending a chill through him.

“Caboose’s faith was rewarded today. When those in his village were afraid to pray, he ventured out and cared for the shrine. When those he loved doubted the Moonmaiden’s presence, he remembered she was always there. But what happened today will not happen again, until his magic is allowed to grow. You must learn to close the gates and cleanse the world of the undead on your own.”

Church pulls away. “What do you think I’ve been studying for a hundred years?”

Sheila shakes her head. “It is not enough. You are held back by your fear, by your doubts. You fear only one thing, and that one thing keeps you from being a true necromancer, a true bridge between the world of the living and the dead.”

He wants to argue with her, but there’s no use. She’s right. Church watches her form drift back toward Caboose, reaching down to touch his cheek again before she fades back into the symbol around his neck.

Caboose opens his eyes. “Church?”

“He’s here,” Tucker says. He glances up. “Did you take care of it?”

“Yeah.” Church goes and kneels by Caboose, helping him sit up. “You did good, man. That was pretty great.”

“I don’t...really remember what happened.”

“You cast the sickest hallowing spell _ever_ , is what happened,” Tucker says. He plucks at his lyre and sings, “ _Sickest hallowing spell e-ver!_ ”

“How do you feel?” Church asks.

Caboose smiles. “Great! But...tired,” he adds, and he looks it. “Very tired.”

Church nods. “Come on.” He and Tucker help Caboose to his feet. “We’ll find a place to rest,” he says.

As they leave, Church looks over his shoulder and frowns.

_Why were you here?_

_What did you do?_

“Map says there’s a little village about an hour ahead,” Tucker says.

Church nods. “We’ll go there.”

As they make their way down the road, he looks back at the tower one last time.

_What are you planning?_

 

* * *

 

The paladins stay with them as they make their way down the road. Sarge doesn’t mind the company so much — they’re capable, behave more like soldiers than Grif and the others. Carolina takes charge immediately, leading them down the road. The other one sticks to the back. After he’d woken up and Donut was feeling better, they’d immediately headed out again.

As night falls, Carolina demands they take turns keeping watch. Sarge volunteers for the first round.

“I’ll sit with you,” she says.

“No.” The other one, Wash, shakes his head. “I’ll do it.”

“You need your rest—”

“I’ve rested enough today,” he snaps.

Carolina steps back. “Fine.”

After dinner, the others make camps, while Wash and Sarge find a spot along the perimeter, and listen to the night.

After a half hour or so, Wash says quietly, “I didn’t mean to hurt your friend.”

“I know,” Sarge says.

“I just...lost control.”

Sarge grunts, uncapping his hip flask. “Seems like it.”

Wash leans back, looking up at the moon. “I broke my oath.” Sarge wants to tell him he doesn’t have to talk about it, but he seems to need it. Sarge angles toward him and passes him his flask. Wash takes a drink. “Someone was killing tieflings. I guess I kinda took it personally.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

Wash laughs. “Yeah. Shouldn’t have happened, but...it did. Carolina and I found him together, but I got to him first. And I just...I lost control.” He hands the flask back. “I got so _angry_.”

“It happens.”

“Yeah, but it shouldn’t have. I’m supposed to be better than that. My oath demands I show mercy, that I believe everyone is capable of redemption.” He shakes his head. “But I couldn’t do it. I used everything I had and I _destroyed him._ ” He lifts one of his hands and inspects it in the moonlight. “These are supposed to heal. It’s a gift from Tyr, from the divinity of taking the oath. Instead I almost killed someone.”

Sarge sighs. “Look, I’m not gonna lecture you on this. You seem like you’ve tortured yourself enough over it, but I will say one thing.” He points behind them. “Three hundred years ago, someone trapped me in a cave. I never saw the way the war I fought in ended. And you know something, if I’d had...well, there’s no way in _hell_ I’d have been caught camping with someone like that idiot over there.” He points to Grif. “But it happened, and now I’m here. And you know what, I’m a little grateful for it.”

“You don’t miss your family?”

“Didn’t really have one to speak of. I suspect this is supposed to be some sort of punishment for something I did, but hell if I can remember.” Sarge takes a swig from his flash. “Point is, these things happen. Maybe it’s for a reason, maybe it isn’t. But you’re here and you’re alive. I think that’s a pretty special thing.” He takes another drink. “Now stop your yammerin’ and quit feelin’ sorry for yourself. Understand?”

Wash laughs. “Yes, sir,” he says, and leans back, resting his hands behind his horned head.

Sarge sighs and passes him the flask again.

Three hundred years, he thinks, and there are just some things in this world that simply don’t change.


	3. bardic inspiration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Church tells the truth. Simmons keeps a secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew! back on schedule. i rewrote this a few times, and had more planned but -- i needed to do a few things and work on establishing some character lore. probably two more chapters?? anyway please continue to enjoy as i play fast and loose with d&d spells and stuff.

_The Necromancer's Code decrees: raise no creature for your own gain; leave behind no open gate; never impeded the passing of a soul. This is how we protect the living, how we secure the fate of the dead, and how we protect both worlds from destruction. Fear no evil, because the greatest evil lives and lies dormant within yourself, and the fight for good is never finished._

 

* * *

 

Church sends Tucker and Caboose past the village and stops on his own to pick up a few things. When he meets them down the road, Tucker is building a fire and Caboose is curled up under a blanket, using Freckles as a pillow.

“He okay?” Church asks, kneeling beside the two of them.

Tucker nods. “Yeah, just...couldn’t walk anymore.” He glances at Caboose snoring softly under the blanket. “He did pretty great.”

Church nods. “Yeah, he did.”

Tucker laughs, leaning over and lifting a dead rabbit by the ears. “Shot this before he passed out, too,” he says, and starts cleaning it.

* * *

“Alright,” Tucker says, tossing the last bone onto his plate. “You’ve been waiting all night, so. Go on and ask.”

Church shakes his head. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come _on_ , dude.” Tucker sets his plate down and reaches for his rapier, pulling it out of its sheath. Church watches the fire reflect off the metal. The colors seems to move, shifting under orange light and the soft glow of the setting sun. He angles the handle toward Church, who takes it.

“...How does it work?” Church asks.

Tucker laughs. “ _Okay_. Not what I thought you’d ask. Most people just wanna know where I got it, or how much they can give me for it.”

Church nods. “Right, yeah, I definitely want to know where you got it, but—”

“Wizards,” Tucker mutters, and stands. “Alright. You got a good arm?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.” Tucker takes the rapier from him and stands away from one of the large oaks in the clearing. With an expert arm he flings it at the trunk of the tree. Church has never seen anyone use a sword like that, and he’s certainly never seen one that reappears in someone’s hand. Tucker gives it a flourish. “Yeah?”

“Impressive.” Church takes it again. “Now _how does it work?_ ”

“No idea. I’ve let other people give it a shot, but, it doesn’t work the same for them. It’s like...like I found it and now it only works for me.” He shrugs. “Dunno. I mean I did take it off a dead guy.”

“ _Whoa_ , Tucker—” Church backs away, handing it back. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” Tucker sheathes the blade. “I mean, it wasn’t like, a freshly dead guy. It was a _really_ dead guy.”

“What happened?”

“Eh.” Tucker settles down, reaching into his bag for a kettle. “Tea?”

“Sure.”

He waves his hand and the fire grows. Once again, Church is a little impressed. Tucker fills the kettle and hangs it over the flame. “I was working with this group, clearing out an old temple. Dunno what it is about creepy abandoned building that screams _free real estate_ to walking skeletons, but whatever.” Tucker leans back. “Anyway, fell down a hole, got left behind.” He shrugs. “One thing led to another, I found a false wall and a really cool sword.”

Church raises a brow. “Huh. That’s...kind of a bad story.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s not impressive at all. Usually I tell people that I, like, found it in a dragon’s hoard, or killed a lich for it or something.” He shrugs.

Church grins. “Is that what you told the viscount’s daughter?”

Tucker ducks his head. “Ah, no. Actually. I told her the truth.”

“About the sword?”

Tucker nods. “Yeah. And everything.”

Church moves closer. “...Which is?”

Tucker pulls back. “Man you _really_ don’t trust anyone, do you?” Church shakes his head. “Uh, okay. I told her I was a Blade, that I left my troupe behind and I was on my way to meet my son.”

“So that’s...true,” Church says. “What you said about your kid.”

“Yeah.” Tucker waves a hand and the kettle comes off the fire. He pours two cups and passes one to Church. “I got a letter—” He reaches into his bag and pulls it out, handing it to Church.

Church looks it over. It’s from an orphanage in Tarthis, on the coast. It seem legitimate, but Church has known people to believe a lot more for a lot less. He looks at Tucker, who hums as he fixes his tea, a tune Church actually recognizes. It’s a southern folk tune, something Church remembers from his childhood.

If he closes his eyes, he can still see her — she towers impossibly above him, gripping his hand tight as they wade across the river that runs in front of their hours.

_What did papa say about the river, Church?_

_That it is good protection from the Dead._

_That’s right,_ she coos.

Church looks into the fire. He thinks she’s his mother, but sometimes he isn’t sure. The person his mother was is so far from him, a memory he isn’t sure he has.

“What’s your son’s name?” Church asks quietly.

Tucker smiles. “No idea.” He wraps his hands around his cup. “But I can’t wait to find out.”

* * *

Church doesn’t want to let Tucker have the first watch. Or any watch, frankly. Church is an _elf_ , he doesn’t even need sleep. Of course this argument doesn’t hold up as well when he can hardly keep his eyes open — it’s been an exhausting handful of days, so he reluctantly agrees to rest as long as Delta keeps an eye on Tucker.

“He tries anything at all—”

“Yeah, yeah, your talking sword will slice the back of my knees open. _I get it._ ” Tucker plucks at his lyre, and the fire feels warmer. “Just chill, alright? I promise you’ll wake up in one piece.”

“Tall order,” Church says. “Considering the luck we’ve had.”

“That’s all on you. I’m just along for the ride.”

Church sighs and pulls a blanket over his shoulders, curling up in a spot close to Caboose and closing his eyes. He doesn’t need this at _all_ — until he absolutely does. Sleep comes to him _heavy_ , weighing him down until the sound of the fire crackling and Tucker humming is a distant thing, and all he hears is the sound of his own breathing, growing slower and softer _until_ —

“Hello.”

Church yelps and sits up. The air around him is thick with the feel of a dreamstate. This isn’t their little camp anymore — years of teaching tell him that he is somewhere between planes, drifting, even as he sees the faint outlines of Tucker and Caboose. The voice that echoes around him is familiar, and Church turns to find the spectral form of Sheila hovering close by. He looks up, and the moon hangs in whatever sort of sky this place has, full where their own was waning.

“Does this place belong to Selune?” Church asks.

Sheila nods. “Yes. It is her realm. It’s where I can speak with you more freely. You have questions.”

“Yeah. Is Caboose going to be okay?”

Sheila nods. “He will feel rested in the morning. The hallowing spell was quite a bit of effort, he’ll feel the effects for some time.” She tips her head to the side. “You seem...bothered, Leonard Church.”

“Don’t call me that.” Church glances around. Tucker’s form is strumming his lyre. If Church closes his eyes and focuses, he can hear the music. It’s nice, if a little eerie. “Can I trust him?”

“The bard?” Church nods. “I think so.”

“He said he has a son. Do you think that’s true?”

Sheila focuses, her form fading out, then in. She nods. “I sense a young soul attached to his own. I sense many souls attached, but the young one is particularly strong.” She looks at Church. “There are strong souls attached to you as well.”

“I’m sure.” He glances around. “You brought me here. Why?”

Sheila is hovering over Caboose’s sleeping form. Even out of focus, he looks young, impossibly so. She looks endeared, reaching out and touching the edge of his shadowy profile. “Good dreams,” she murmurs, and turns back to Church. “I brought you here to ask about your father. What do you remember?”

Church frowns. He doesn’t talk about his father much. There really isn’t much to say. About the past, anyway. The present — it’s a different story.

“I don’t know him well,” Church says. “He sent me away when I was young.”

“To...a school. Yes?”

Church nods. “He wanted me to learn necromancy in its purest form. I think he just wanted me out of the way.”

“But you _did_ learn it,” Sheila says. “You’re a very powerful wizard. And you honor your code—”

“The _code_ ,” Church mutters.

“...Do you not...appreciate the code?”

“Oh, it’s just some bullshit. Never raise the dead for your own gain. Never leave behind an open gate. Never stand in the way of a soul passing.” Church is still sitting, and with each line he recites, he curls further in on himself. “They hammered on that, day after day. A lot of people didn’t last. And a lot of people are already dead.”

“The curse of your blood,” Sheila murmurs. “To see those you care about die before you have a chance to really be grown yourself.”

“I guess.” Church toys with the hem of his pants. “There were so few of us to begin with,” he says. “I haven’t met another since I left.”

“And why did you leave?”

Church looks up. “Why do you want to know?”

“You should speak your destiny outloud.”

“No,” he says. “And it isn’t my _destiny._ My father’s...my father’s _mistakes_ aren’t my destiny.” Church stands now, fists clenched angrily at his sides. “He swore to me, the last time he _deigned_ to be in my presence, that he would _never_ raise my mother. But I knew it was a lie. I...I always knew.” He looks down at Caboose’s sleeping shadow, and thinks about the mother who let her son run away with a wizard. “He loved her more than he could have even _imagined_ loving me. It’s why he sent me away. The memory is...foggy. But I know.” He looks at Sheila. “I’d like to rest, now.”

She nods. “Of course.”

Church settles back into his place and reclines his head. “But, you know? You’re right. I do feel a little better.”

* * *

“ _Good morning, Church!_ ”

Caboose’s voice booms, and Church sits up with a groan, blinking against the light streaming in through the trees.

“Hi, Caboose.”

“Look! Freckles and I caught some breakfast.”

“You seem to be feeling better.” Church stretches and remembers Sheila’s gift of a restful slumber. “Good dreams?”

“The best,” Caboose says brightly. “Tucker is cooking, and we are going to get more water.” He lifts their canteens. “Come on, Freckles!” Caboose jogs into the woods, eyes expertly scanning the ground for signs of water. Church finally makes his way toward the fire. Tucker passes him a cup of coffee.

“Don’t elves, like, _not_ need sleep?” Tucker asks.

Church sits next to him, taking a grateful sip. “It’s a free world, Tucker. I do what I want.”

“Fair enough,” Tucker says. “Quail egg?”

“Uh, sure.”

The morning is filled with the sounds of forks scraping tin plates, and Caboose’s woops of excitement when he finds a creek. He comes back with their canteens filled and his hair soaking wet. “I stuck it in. Felt good.”

“I bet.” Church takes the canteen and tosses it back with the rest of his things.

Tucker clears his throat. “So, uh. I know I said I was probably gonna take off and everything.”

“You said you didn’t need our help,” Caboose says, wolfing down his breakfast.

“Right. That.” Tucker nods. “But, yeah. I wanna stick with you guys. I’ve still got a ways to go before I get to the coast. Might as well be useful while I’m doing it.” Church raises a brow. Tucker picks up on it right away. “Look, I _swear_ you can trust me. I kept watch, didn’t I?”

It’s true that he did. He looks a little tired, but no worse for wear. Church makes a note to make it up to him the next time they camp for the night.

“Alright. You can come.”

“Great. So, uh. What are we doing?”

At the question, Caboose leans forward, his hand idly scratching Freckles behind the ear. Church sighs. He supposes, now that he has a small collection of loyal idiots, that he owes them an explanation.

They’re...really not that bad.

“I, uh. I’m a necromancer—”

“No shit.”

“I’m telling the _story_ , Tucker. Don’t be an ass.” Church sighs. “I’m a necromancer, and so is my father. When I was really young he sent me away to this...school. I learned the necromancer’s code, I learned a dozen languages, magics, alchemy, all of it. But, before all of that, my mother died. And my father swore, the last time we were together, that he’d never do anything to bring her back, because it’s...it’s wrong. It violates the rules of nature, of magic...of everything.”

“Clerics do it,” Tucker says.

“Clerics _offer_ resurrection. It’s different. It’s done through divine right, and if you died and a Cleric tried to bring you back, you could say no.”

Tucker frowns. “I...didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. That’s the difference. A necromancer...forces things to come back. But they’re never like they were. You can never just drag someone back from the dead. After my mother died, I guess...I guess a ritual was cast on her soul to prevent this.”

“Who did it?” Caboose asks.

“No idea. I assumed other necromancers, probably. Maybe a cleric. Recently, though, I discovered that my father was...trying to undo the ritual. It’s powerful, and the process of reversing it requires a huge amount of power and...and _gold_ , honestly. But it requires magic even he doesn’t have. And he’s trying to get it. And whatever he’s doing...it seems to be attracting the undead.”

“The ones in my village,” Caboose murmurs.

“Yeah. I think he must have passed through. He’s...the one who opened the gate, too. He was coming back to see if it had done what he wanted, which is basically create a _sinkhole_ of necromantic energy. Wasn’t enough. He’s going to know we closed it,” Church adds. “I’m sure he’s deeply connected to all the gates he’s opened.”

“Uh, _all_ of them?” Tucker asks. “He’s opened more of those things?”

“Yeah. Probably a good dozen. And that’s what I’m trying to do. Catch up to him, close the gates.”

Tucker whistles low. “Wow. He must have _really_ loved your mom.”

Church nods, looking into the first.

_What did papa say about the river, Church?_

_That it is good protection from the Dead._

_That’s right,_ she coos.

“Yeah,” he says. “He really did.”

 

* * *

 

The paladins make Simmons uncomfortable.

It isn’t _just_ that one of them tried to cast a healing spell and almost _murdered_ Donut instead. Simmons can’t fault him for that. One time he tried to turn a leaf into a kitten, and accidentally summoned a tiger from an alternate dimension that almost ate Grif’s entire face.

So he gets it. Magic is _weird._

It’s just they speak in these sort of low, conspiratorial whispers and one of them is obviously about to go off the deep end, while the other immediately takes charge. Simmons doesn’t _really_ mind. It’s nice to have some actual leadership, but still. She’s a little frightening. She’s also an elf, which Simmons is sort of happy about. She turns to him at dinner one evening and says in elvish, “ _How did you wind up with this group of weirdos?_ ” It’s meant to be teasing, and not unkind.

But Simmons hears Grif mutter in elvish from the other side of camp, “ _Some of us know your stupid language, too, lady._ ”

“Alright. I’ll pose the question to you all.” Carolina sips from her bowl of soup. “How did you all meet?”

“Oh!” Donut strums his mandolin. “Can I tell it? Oh, _please_ , can I tell it?”

Carolina laughs. “Alright. Tell it.”

Donut clears his throat. It’s not a bad story — Simmons thinks he lingers too long on the part where Grif rescued him from a band of very hungry wolves, and about how Simmons felt like he owed Grif a life debt and how now they’re very, very close and _such_ good friends — but the rest of it is nice. How they met Donut by the eastern coast and they sat by a fire on the beach and ate clams and Simmons put his feet in the ocean for the very first time. How they were kidnapped by bandits and Donut was able to put all of them, even Grif, asleep and they had to carry Grif out before everyone woke up.

Donut stops. “Oh, man! I don’t have the part about you in there, Sarge. We found Sarge in a cave! He was trapped there by someone who was _probably_ his mortal enemy, or maybe a rival! I’m not sure how I want to tell it yet, but I _think_ you’re pretty believable as a romantic lead.”

Carolina raises a brow. “You guys have been through a lot together.”

“Yeah,” Grif says. “We’re all happy and dysfunctional now. Are the two of you stickin around forever? Because, no offense, you’re mean,” he says to Carolina. He looks at Wash. “And you’re kinda crazy.”

“I am _not_ —”

Carolina puts a hand on Wash’s shoulder. “We’re traveling west toward the coast. By the end of the week, we’ll be out of your hair.”

At _coast_ , though, Grif’s ears perk up. It’s a half-orc thing, Simmons thinks. Grif’s ears are sort of expressive. It’s not something he’s been _looking_ for. Anyone could see it.

“You’re...going to the western coast.”

“That’s what I said.”

Grif nods. “Okay.” He settles back against his pack. “Well...well maybe we can stick together for a little longer.”

Wash picks sullenly at his food. “What’s on the coast?” he asks.

“Just, uh. Just family,” Grif says. “Family I haven’t seen in a while.”

Simmons raises a brow and the exchange a look — _yeah, you know_ — before relaxing.

Grif doesn’t talk much about his sister, but Simmons knows he misses her. It’s the one thing Simmons really can’t relate to. He’s not interested in going home, to a father he disappointed by never doing anything right. He knows Grif can’t go back the way they came either. A string of failures follow them all — even _Donut_ was struggling when they met him.

But the coast...the coast is where they might be able to get a fresh start. It’s been an unspoken goal between the three of them.

“Well,” Carolina says. “I would be very happy to go to the coast with you. Wash and I need to meet up with an old friend.” She finishes her soup. There’s an odd cadence to her voice that Simmons finds hard to place. He supposes that’s what separates secret keepers from the rest of them. Simmons is a terrible liar. Carolina is practiced at it. Wash, too.

“I’ll take first watch,” Simmons says.

Grif nods. “I’ll sit up with you.”

Carolina raises a brow. “I can do it—”

“You should rest,” Simmons says. “Seriously. Hey, I’ll give you second watch, how about that?”

“ _Deal_ ,” she says in elvish. Grif rolls his eyes.

* * *

When everyone has fallen asleep, Grif and Simmons lay flat on their back, and look up at the stars.

“What do you call that one?” Simmons asks. Orcs and half-orcs have an expansive constellation system that Simmons is trying to learn, but Grif can sometimes be a rather poor historian. Except about this. He’s very good at remembering _this._

“That’s the Crown. Used to be orc _kings_ , you know? And this guy, Yaznul, I think. He didn’t have any sons or daughters, so he cast his crown into the stars and dissolved his kingdom.”

“That’s cool.”

“And, uh, that one’s the snooty elf friend,” Grif says, pointing to a formation that _definitely_ looks elfish in nature. Simmons swats his hand away. “I’m _kidding._ ”

“What’s it really called?”

Grif laughs. “It’s actually called the elf queen. There was another king who fell in love with this beautiful elf, and she fell in love with him. Even though he knew that she would live hundreds of years after he was gone...he still did it.”

Simmons swallows. “Yeah. Shitty elf blood.”

“I think it’s cool,” Grif says. He looks at Simmons. “Might be kind of interesting to live forever.”

“I’m not going to _live forever._ I’m already a hundred and thirty years old.”

“Yeah, but isn’t that, like, twenty in elf years.”

Simmons presses his lips together. “...Kind of,” he says.

Grif laughs again. “See? Anyway—” He looks back at the stars. “Doesn’t matter. We’re probably gonna get killed by a revenant before anything else.”

“Don’t talk like that.” Simmons sits up and looks down at him. “You’re going to make it to your sister. I promise. I’m...I’m gonna get you there.”

Grif sits up, too, and Simmons is aware their knees are touching. That Grif has leaned forward into his space.

“I always think that I never should have left home. But I...I got to meet you. And Donut,” he adds quickly. “And... _Sarge_ ,” he says, begrudgingly. “But I miss it. All the time. I wish we didn’t have to bring those two with us, but I...if they can help us get there, then it’s fine, I guess.”

“I’ll get you there,” Simmons says again.

Grif smiles. “Yeah. I know you will.”

* * *

They keep walking the next morning. Grif is a little more relaxed, now that they all seem to share a common goal. The western coast, Grif promises, is better than the eastern coast. “Warmer,” he says, and gives Simmons a heavy pat on the back before jogging ahead to catch up with Carolina.

Donut sidles up to Simmons, strumming his mandolin. “Aren’t you going to _say_ something?”

“Choose your next words carefully, Donut.”

He sighs. “Forget it. You two just—”

Up ahead, Grif and Carolina have stopped. They passed through Waterdeep a few miles back, and ahead of them is a large clearing, dominated by an enormous tower. Simmons shudders — the ground here is recently hallowed, and powerfully so. He kneels down and touches the earth, feels a certain presence.

“Selune,” he says.

“The Moonmaiden,” Donut croons.

Carolina comes to him. “What do you feel?”

“...People. They were in the tower,” Simmons says. “...There was something open there. Something like...like a—”

“A gate,” Carolina says.

“Undead?” Wash asks, and she nods. “Pretty strong hallowing spell.”

“Yeah.” Carolina crosses the clearing to the tower, and Simmons follows her. She places her hand on the stone and closes her eyes. After a moment, she opens them. “He was here…”

“Who?”

She turns to Simmons. “Someone whose presence I haven’t felt in...a long time.”

“Is that a good thing?”

Carolina smiles. “Yes. It’s a very good thing.” She looks back at their group. Wash looks particularly miserable. “We should keep going. Things like to gather at the edge of hallowing spells.”

Simmons sighs as he walks away. It’s a language he just...doesn’t speak. This language of secrets. He wishes he did. He wishes he could keep them. When they’re back on the road, Grif falls into step beside him, and Donut looks over suggestively, strumming his mandolin in time with their steps.

Well, he thinks. Maybe he’s a little better at keeping secrets than he’d like to believe.

* * *

It’s the middle of the night when the howls from the woods wake him. Simmons sits up straight. Grif and Carolina have already drawn their weapons, and Wash is readying himself. Simmons grabs his staff and scrabbles to his feet.

Donut swallows. “Revenants,” he says.

Sarge shakes his head. “No,” he says. "Recognize the stench.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a flask of alchemical fire. “Those are ghasts.”

“How many?” Grif asks.

“I think four,” Carolina says. “Hard to tell.”

“Can we...I mean can we get—” Simmons wants to know if they can escape, but before he can finish asking, he starts to gag, choking on the putrid stench of the approaching ghasts. He’s not the only one. Everyone but Carolina and Wash double over. Simmons can’t seem to shake it. He wretches, stumbling back and away from the forest’s edge.

“ _Simmons!_ ” Grif shouts. “Simmons, just—” A ghast barrels out of the woods, launching itself at Grif and digging its claws into his armor. “ _Son of a bitch_ —”

Four ghasts fall on them, screeching into the night. Carolina’s sword glows the way it did when they met her on the road with the revenant. Simmons wants to understand that, but he’s trying to find the right spells, the right words that will save him, save his friends —

“Stand back!” Sarge hollers, and launches the flask of fire toward the ghast on top of Grif. It burns them both, but Grif manages to get up, dealing three heavy blows. The creature reels back, batting the fire from it scraps of cloth hanging from its body. Donut’s spells come quick after, but Simmons is still trying to figure out what to do.

“Stop thinking!” Grif shouts. “You can _do this_ , you’re _fine!_ ” Simmons looks up and Grif is staring at him, breathing heavy. He’s bleeding, but he’s standing. And he looks... _gods_ he looks good. He looks really good.

Simmons nods. Moonbeam is easy to cast, and it falls on top of the closest ghast and _burns_ through it, cleaving off a limb. He sees one swipe at Wash who growls, holding out a hand and sending the ghast flying back with a fiery blast. Simmons doesn’t know if it’s because he’s a tiefling, or because he is definitely losing his grip on whatever oath he originally took, but whatever. He doesn’t want to die.

And it’s going well. It’s going really, _really_ well. They’re gaining the upper hand, and even though they all look like hell, Simmons thinks they’ve _got this._

And then two more rush out of the woods.

It throws him. They both go for Grif, who has just thrown one off of him, dead, on the ground, and is now being pulled down by two more.

“Grif!” Simmons throws out a hand, tries to cast a healing word toward him. It doesn’t help. One bites into Grif’s neck. Carolina pulls a dagger from her belt and tosses it expertly, sticking one in the throat. Donut is trying desperately to think of something, going through every note, every melody he knows —

And all Simmons can think is he _needs_ to get Grif away from them, get Grif _away_ from them, get Grif _away_ —

He casts. It’s...strong, he can feel that, but he isn’t sure what it is. There are some spells he doesn’t know yet, some that are hidden, some he uncovers after meditation, after battle, after being so _angry_ he goes blind.

Simmons casts. And in the moment before it all goes to hell, Grif meets his gaze, and he smiles.

And then he’s gone.

 

* * *

 

“ _Where did he go?_ ” The two ghasts that attacked them are dead, now, thanks to Carolina. Wash has been trying to calm Simmons down for five minutes, but it isn’t working. He paces the place where Grif had stood just a minute before, pulling at his short-cropped hair, tossing his staff to the ground. “ _Where the fuck did he go?_ ”

Donut approaches cautiously. “It’s okay, Simmons. We’ll find him—”

“ _I banished him to another plane of existence!_ ” Simmons yells. “That’s what I _fucking_ did!” He looks desperately at Wash. “I didn’t...I didn’t even know I could _do that._ ”

Wash nods. He understands that. He understands that a lot.

When he puts a hand on Simmons’s shoulder, he jerks away. “I don’t need that. I _need_ to get Grif back.”

Carolina sheathes her sword. “If you banished him to another plane, he’s going to have to find his own way back.” She doesn’t sound happy to say it, but Wash knows — that’s the truth. He looks at Simmons who steps away.

“No. No, no, _no_ ,” he says. “Please tell me that’s not true. Donut—” He turns to the bard who rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably.

“...She’s right, Simmons. He has to find his own way back.”

Simmons slumps to the ground, breathing heavy. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ —”

Wash steps away as Sarge and Donut move forward to console Simmons. He looks at Carolina.

“...Can we do anything?”

She shakes her head. “No.” She looks down the road, like Grif might come walking around the corner, and sighs. “We just...have to wait until he comes back.”


	4. sacred oath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif takes an oath. Wash takes an oath. No one takes a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh sorry this chapter is kinda dnd heavy but you'll be fine.

_You are as old as the world itself. The blood in your veins runs through rivers and through the trees and is spilled out upon this earth as rain. You cast yourself as a savior of light, in this, the cosmic struggle. You seek not honor, nor to further the cause of justice. Remember this: kindle the light. Where there is beauty, love, and laughter, shelter it. Where there is song and dance, delight in it. Where there is despair, shine on it._

_Let your light inspire, let your courage never falter, and let your time on this earth be magnificent._

 

* * *

 

Grif opens his eyes, and the world is very still.

He lays there for a moment, listened to the soft whistle of wind through trees. It’s not where he was, nor any place he’s ever been. The air smells spiced, and honey sweet. He flexes his hands against the softest grass he’s ever felt — and then he remembers.

“Simmons—” He sits upright, looking around wildly. He’d been on the road, with his friends, and the paladins. He’d been fighting. Fighting _ghasts_. He gags at the memory and reaches for his sword, but there is nothing to battle. He gets to his feet cautiously and looks around. This is a place he doesn’t recognize, but it feels...familiar somehow. Like he _should_ know what it is, like he should have been here sooner.

“Dex?”

Grif turns. It’s been three years since he heard his sister’s voice, but he _knows_ it. the sound doesn’t seem to be attached to anything. His name echoes in the field, but it _must_ have a source. Grif holds his sword tighter and begins to follow it.

 _“Kai!_ ”

“Dex!”

“Kaikaina! Where are you—”

“Dex, I’m here!”

Grif walks through the field, the grass growing taller and taller as he goes. Where it was at his ankles before, it’s now waist high, and thicker than water. He struggles to wade through it, and begins hacking at the blades.

“Kai, just hold on—”

There is a part of his brain, one that sounds distressingly like Simmons, that tells him to trust nothing here. The smell is so sickly sweet he’s starting to feel nauseous, and every step he takes he feels like Kai’s voice is getting further and further away.

“No, no, _no_ —”

He yells for her one last time, but there’s no response. His sword slips from his grasp, and Grif slumps down into the field, drowning in gold.

“Dexter Grif?” Grif looks up. There’s a hand reaching for him, parting the grass. A voice speaking his _language_ , for the first time in so long.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely.

“Get up.”

Grif takes the hand. It’s solid to touch, but when he finally stands, he sees that the figure is...less than fully formed. A spirit.

“You’re not an orc,” Grif says.

“No.”

“...Okay.” He looks around. “I’m in the Feywild, aren’t I?”

The spirit nods. “That is correct.”

“And I’m...stuck here. I guess.”

“For now.” The spirit turns and begins to move through the grass. “You should follow. I have something to show you.”

Grif starts stepping through the grass, trying to keep up. “Look, I’m all about the mystery, or whatever, but do you have a name or something?”

The spirit stops and turns. “Lopez is fine.”

Grif sighs. “Lopez it is, then.” He follows the spirit for a while, in total silence. Grif wants to ask more questions, if only to hear someone else speak Orc, which he hasn’t heard from another person in years. Even at home, he and Kai speak common, their father’s language. Most orcs and half-orcs Grif meets do the same. So it’s strangely comforting to hear it, even from an oddly disembodied spirit.

“Just a bit further,” Lopez says, and Grif finally catches up, trying to get a good feel for what Lopez... _looks_ like. Lopez notices. He looks at Grif and says, “I used to be like you.”

“Like...like an orc.” Lopez nods. “How long ago?”

“Older than your war.”

“Wasn’t my war,” Grif says quickly. “Not even my grandmother was alive for that.”

“True. Time is...different here.”

Grif swallows. “When I get out...it won’t have been, like, _years_ —”

“No. Nothing like that.” They’ve made their way into a thickly wooded area. All the trees look the same, and when Grif turns back, they’re deeping into the trees than he would have thought. Nothing about this place is _normal_ or _right._ Lopez stops a few feet ahead, waiting for Grif to catch up. They eventually filter out into a clearing, where a stone slab rests in the center.

Laying flat on top of it is a sword.

Grif sighs. “Okay. I’ve read this book before.”

Lopez sighs. “Sarcasm. A uniquely human concept.” Grif bristles at the comment, but Lopez adds: “It serves you well.” He moves toward the sword. “This is a blade of the Ancients. It’s a weapon wielded by those who take the Oath.”

“...What Oath?”

“The _Oath_ of the Ancients.”

Grif raises a brow. “What does that mean?”

“It is an Oath older than our race, than even the elves. It doesn’t bother itself with justice or law, but rather mercy and goodness.”

Grif frowns. “I’m...I’m not—”

But Lopez continues. “It concerns itself with the universal struggle against the darkness. Those who take the Oath vow to preserve what makes the world beautiful and full of life.” Lopez leans down and waves a hand, and the sword levitates from its place. “Will you take the it?”

Grif shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”

“...What? Why?”

“Look.” Grif points at the sword. “I’m not...good, okay?”

“You are,” Lopez says. “I sense it within you. I would not have appeared to you if you were not worthy—”

“Well that was a mistake, alright?” Grif steps back. “I’m not strong enough or smart enough to do all that stuff you just said.”

Lopez moves closer. “Then you’ll remain here. You have what it takes, you need only make the choice.”

“I can’t.”

“ _Why not?_ ” Lopez’s voice booms through the trees.

Grif looks away. “I’ve never been good enough. For anything. Not for mercenary work. Not as a soldier. Not as a guard. Not as a sword. Not for anyone.”

“Not even to your friends? To the elf?”

Grif looks up.. “That’s not the same. We’re all useless.”

Lopez shakes his head. “No,” he says. “You are _not_ useless. And if you take up this sword, if you take the Oath, you will _never_ feel useless again.”

“But how—”

“Enough excuses. You have made excuses all your life. Excuses for not reaching your potential. Excuses for not staying with your family. Excuses for not confessing your feelings—”

“ _Hey!_ ” Grif advances. “None of that is...that’s not—” He scowls. “You don’t _know me_.”

“I know enough.” Lopez looks back at the sword. “Either you remain here, or you take the sword. Those are your choices.” Quietly, he says, “It isn’t just coincidence, and it isn’t that I chose you. Your ancestors took this Oath hundreds of years ago.”

“Humans will do anything—”

“No. Orcs.”

“...Orcs took an Oath to preserve beauty and love?” Lopez nods. “Wow.”

“It was lost. To more aggressive ways of life, to history and time. You will be the first in hundreds of years to pledge yourself to the Ancients, to wield this blade. To call yourself a fey knight.”

At that, Grif looks up. “...A knight.”

“Yes.”

“ _Me._ ”

“You.”

He sighs. “And if I...follow this path. Then I can go back.” Lopez nods. “...Alright,” he says, and reaches out to take the sword, but Lopez moves it back. “Hey!”

“I have to ask one question, though. A question asked of all fey knights, centuries ago.” Lopez moves back toward the sword.

“Okay.”

Lopez’s spirit form finally materializes, and Grif sees a half-orc, smiling wide, one tusk missing. “Is it better to love now, because you _can_ , or to hold back, because you can’t love someone forever?” He extends the sword, so the hilt is within Grif’s grasp. “You don’t have to answer just yet,” Lopez adds. “But think on it.”

Grif nods. “Right,” he says, and grabs the sword.

* * *

The armor Lopez gives him fits well, and easy. It’s worn and sturdy, but not too heavy. Grif sheathes the sword and turns back to Lopez.

“Is this it?”

“Yes. Do you remember what I told you?”

Grif nods. “Kindle the light,” he says. “Shelter the light.” Lopez nods. “Protect my _own_ light.”

“And above all?”

“ _Be_ the light.”

Lopez nods. “You are as old as the world itself. The blood in your veins runs through rivers and through the trees and is spilled out upon this earth as rain. You cast yourself as a savior of light, in this, the cosmic struggle. You seek not honor, nor to further the cause of justice.”

Grif nods. “Let my light inspire—”

“Let your courage never falter—”

Grif finishes: “And let my time on this earth be magnificent.”

 

* * *

 

Simmons is stoking the fire when he hears a crack of arcane energy behind him. He turns, gripping his staff, strengthening it with a quick spell. Wash is with him, immediately drawing his sword as they both watch the space in front of them split open, wider and wider, until it’s large enough for someone to step through.

That someone is Grif.

He looks... _different._ His armor is strange, stitched with the shapes flora and fauna, and _ancient_ , Simmons can tell right away.

But it isn’t just that.

He stands straighter as the opening behind him closes, and he glances over his shoulder and says something in a language Simmons has never heard before, to someone he can’t see. The opening closes, and Grif is there, looking right at him.

Simmons swallows, and sets down his staff. “...You’re back.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re...you’re really _back._ ”

Grif laughs. “I am.”

Simmons walks right up to him, putting his hands on the armor and inspecting it closely. It’s as ancient as he suspected, and the embroidery is more detailed, more careful. Animals Simmons recognizes, others he doesn’t. Plants he’s never seen before. Grif clears his throat. “Simmons.”

Simmons looks up. Pulls his hands back. “Right. Sorry.”

Grif laughs. “It’s okay.” He glances at Wash. “You alright, twitchy?”

Wash raises a brow. “Yeah. I’m fine. I see you’ve changed stations, so to speak.”

Grif looks down at his hand, flexing it open and closed. His palm glows.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess I have.” He glances at Simmons. “I’ll explain it later,” he says, and puts a hand on Simmons’s shoulder. It’s firm, warm, and heavy.

And it makes Simmons’s mouth go dry, but he doesn’t think much on that.

“Grif!” Donut’s voice cuts through the haze, and he knocks Simmons down giving Grif a hug. “You’re back! You’re alive!” He steps back. “And you look _amazing!_ ”

Sarge says gruffly, “Good to have you back, son.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Carolina comes over and looks Grif up and down. “Banishment suits you.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t the worst thing.” Grif keeps looking back at Simmons, who drops his gaze and busies himself with the fire again.

 _I’m sorry_ , is what he should say.

 _I’m glad you’re back_ , maybe.

Instead, he stays quiet, and continues preparing their dinner. Grif tells them about his trip through the Feywild, which Simmons wants to ask about, at length, but he doesn’t say much about his armor, or his sword, or why he can suddenly cast _spells._ Fucking _typical_ , Simmons thinks.

The next day is a long one. No one mentions Grif’s absence, which was only a day and a half, at best. They run into a pack of wolves mid-afternoon, and Simmons tries not to pay attention to the way Grif moves, the way he seems to know his blade, how his armor is a _part_ of him.

“Impressive,” Carolina says later, but Grif doesn’t give anything up when she presses him for more information. It doesn’t seem to bother her. When they reach a town that evening, she pays for them to double up on rooms, even quicker to do so when it seems Wash won’t last much longer on his feet.

“Get some rest,” she says, and pulls Wash into their room.

“Room with me,” Grif says quickly, grabbing Simmons’s arm. “I’m not bunking with Donut.”

“Uh, right—” Simmons follows Grif into their room, throwing a quick, “Goodnight!” over his soldier as Donut and Sarge head into a room of their own.

Grif bolts the door behind them and sighs. “ _Finally_. Fuck, you leave for _two minutes_ —”

“You were gone for a day.”

Grif nods. “Yeah. I know.”

“So, you know. People are curious.”

“They all seem to be,” Grif says. “But you’re not.”

Simmons shrugs as he starts looking around the room for a place to wash up. “You said you were in the Feywild. I’m assuming it was—”

He feels Grif’s hand on his arm, pulling him so they’re facing one another.

“Simmons—”

“I sent you there,” he says. “It was my fault. So _no_ ,” he snaps. “I don’t want to fucking hear about it.”

“Nothing bad _happened_ , I was fine—”

“What if you hadn’t been, huh? What if I’d sent you...sent you somewhere else?” Simmons pulls away. “I’m dangerous, Grif. And I’m leaving as soon as I can.”

“What?” Grif grabs him by his shirt. “What the fuck are you even talking about? You can’t _leave_ —”

“It’s like it is everywhere,” Simmons says. “No matter where I go, I’m fucking useless.”

Grif lets go of his shirt. Steps back. His expression is changing rapidly, and he mutters to himself, looking down and speaking that language, again, that Simmons has never heard. It’s rough, but almost... _unspoken_ , too. Like not all of it is words, or sounds. He gestures with his hands, and Simmons can’t take it anymore.

“Fucking _say something_ , Grif!”

Grif looks up. “I need to ask you something.”

“Okay, _fine._ ”

Grif comes closer, reaching out to fix Simmons’s shirt. “Is it...is it better to love someone now, while you can? Or should you...should you not love them at all, because you know it won’t last forever?” He looks right at Simmons as he says this, and their mouths, their faces, their hands — it’s all impossibly close.

Simmons somehow manages to get closer.

“Now,” he says, without thought. “You love someone _now_ , Grif. Why would you ever _not_ , just because it won’t—”

“I love _you_ ,” Grif says. “ _Dumbass._ Wasn’t it fucking obvious?”

“It’s less obvious when you swear at me while you say it.”

“I love you, Simmons. Even though you’re a nerd, and you won’t let me cut down trees when I feel like it—”

“It’s _terrible_ —”

“ _Just_ —” Grif kisses him. He reaches up and holds Simmons’s face in his hands, pressing them closer. Simmons hesitates. He _wants_ this, of course he does —

Grif pulls back. “If you don’t feel the same—”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Simmons snaps, and pulls Grif back in.

No more hesitating, is what he decides.

He’s getting what he wants.

When they finally pull apart he laughs, mutters, “I love you, too. Idiot,” he adds.

“Yeah, I just don’t think we’re gonna be able to do the nice thing.”

“No,” Simmons says. “I don’t think we will.”

* * *

They’re on the road again the next morning. Simmons urges Grif to the back of the group, reaching for his hand, which Grif gives a reassuring squeeze. Simmons says quietly, “Tell me about your oath.”

Grif snorts. “You’re such a nerd.”

“I want to know.”

“Alright,” he says. “You are as old as the world itself. The blood in your veins runs through rivers and through the trees and is spilled out upon this earth as rain. You cast yourself as a savior of light, in this, the cosmic struggle. You seek not honor, nor to further the cause of justice. Remember this: kindle the light. Where there is beauty, love, and laughter, shelter it. Where there is song and dance, delight in it. Where there is despair, shine on it.”

He turns to smile, and the early morning light streaming in through the trees around them catches his profile. Simmons feels his breath catch in his throat.

“Let your light inspire, let your courage never falter, and let your time on this earth be magnificent.”

 

* * *

 

Church sits upright in the middle of the night, breathing heavy, and hearing voices.

Never a good sign.

“Sheila,” he says hoarsely. “ _Sheila_ —”

The spirit climbs out of the holy symbol hung around Caboose’s neck. “What is it, Church?”

“Can you feel that?”

She makes a face, focusing, then nods. “Yes. Yes, I can. A gate is threatening to rupture.”

“Yeah. And it’s close.”

Sheila moves close to him. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

Church nods. “Something familiar. Something... _someone_. Someone I know.” He stands on trembling legs. Sheila disappears.

Next to him, Caboose rolls over in his sleep. “Church?”

“Go back to sleep, Caboose.”

“Church, where are you going?”

“Just gotta check something.”

Tucker is coming back from patrolling the edge of their camp as Church buckles Delta around his waist. “ _Hey._ ” He points. “Where the fuck are you going?”

“I need to take a walk.”

“Nuh-uh. It’s late. Fuckin’ witching hours, man. And that’s not a joke.”

Caboose sits up. “You can’t walk during witching hours.”

“That’s _not real_ ,” Church says.

“It _is_ ,” Caboose insists. “My mom says—”

“Look, you either both sit here and stop whining, or you shut up and come with me.”

Tucker and Caboose exchange glances and nod. Caboose gets up, whistling for Freckles. Tucker dumps a bucket of earth on the fire.

Church sighs. “ _Alright then._ ”

The three of them head out of the clearing they’ve camped in, onto the open road. The pull of that _soul_ on him is fiercer now. So much so that Church wonders if they’re feeling it, too. It’s like a memory, he thinks. Whoever this is, he _knows_ , but he can’t place their face, or how he knows them.

He’s struck with that memory again — a hand holding his, helping him cross the river.

He always thought that person was his mother, but this person...they can’t be her. That’s just not possible.

“Who are you?” he mutters.

“Dude.” Tucker looks around, casting light on his hand and extending it. “We need to get out of the dark.”

“We’re moving.”

“I’m scared,” Caboose says, gripping his holy symbol.

Church reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulders. “Don’t be. I won’t let anything happen to you.” Caboose looks at him, face pale with fear. “I promise.” He looks at Tucker. “We’ll both look out for you.”

“Considering Caboose seems to be in touch with a _goddess_ ,” Tucker says, “I think maybe _he’s_ going to be looking out for _us._ But yeah, man. We’ve got you.”

They keep making their way down the road, until Church spots the flicker of a firelight ahead. He slows their pace, drawing Delta just as Caboose takes his crossbow in hand and Tucker puts a hand on the hilt of his rapier.

“Steady,” Church says. “Eyes front.”

“ _A familiar soul,_ ” Delta says. He’s been quiet for some time. “ _There’s no need for fear._ ”

“You know them?” Church asks. Delta hums. “Then who—”

“ _Hold it right there, dirtbags!_ ” A voice sounds from behind them, startling Caboose, who shoots a bolt at the ground with a yelp. Freckles turns and growls, baring his teeth.

“Dammit, Sarge!” A half-orc walks out of the tree line, drawing his sword. “You’re supposed to _message_ someone, not alert everything with _ears_ in a hundred mile radius—” He stops, taking in the sight of them. “You're not bandits.”

“No,” Church says. The half-orc isn't familiar, though his soul is tinged with something ancient, now that Church is really seeking. “I'm looking for someone. I think they're in your camp.”

Grif sighs. “What do you think sir?”

Sarge chuckles. “Well if they try anything _funny_ , maybe you can ask a tree to take a swing at ‘em.”

“Ha fuckin’ ha, old man.”

“That’s old man _sir._ ”

Grif sighs. “Whatever.” He leads them through the trees, into another clearing.

The memories are getting stronger now. Someone feeding him lunch. Someone teaching him to cast his first cantrip. Someone showing him an ancient spellbook.

Someone whispering _I will always look out for you,_ as they tuck him into bed.

Not his mother. He'd know if it was her. But...family still, he realizes.

And then he remembers:

Green eyes, like his father’s. Red hair and beautiful armor. A sword that glowed, a holy symbol he used to play with while she did the dishes.

_You're going to summon a guardian and get me into trouble, little brother._

“Brother,” he mutters. Church lifts his head as they approach the camp — and he sees her.

_Sister._

She stands, watching them being led into the little camp. There's no look of recognition, not until she looks right at him, and her face goes pale.

Their souls _hook_. A part of himself that he hadn't even known was missing suddenly falls into place. And Church knows her name.

“Carolina,” he breathes, and rushes her, dropping Delta.

“Oh, gods _. Church_ —”

She envelopes him, red curls falling around his face as they hold one another, sibling souls clinging to each other in the dark.

“I'm so _sorry_ ,” she says, pulling back and holding his face in her hands. “He took you from me, I looked for you everywhere, but I couldn't find you—”

“I didn't even _know_ , he never told me about you. But I remembered. You were there, after she died. _You_ —”

Carolina nods. “I cast the ritual. You helped me, you were so strong—”

From his place on the ground, Delta says, “ _Hello, Carolina._ ”

Those words make her grow stiff in Church’s arms, and she steps back.

“Where...where did you get that?”

Church looks at Delta, pulling away to pick him up from the ground, brushing the dirt from the blade. “He was given to me. By a cleric—”

Carolina _slams_ into him, and Church's back collides with a tree.

He hears Tucker shout, “ _Hey!_ ” and draw his rapier. Delta slips from his grasp again.

“What did you _do_ to him?”

“I don't know what you're talking about!”

“York!” she shouts. “Delta belongs to _York!_ What did you do—”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Delta says. “ _I was a gift._ ”

“York would never—”

“He was dying,” Church says. “I found him, I helped him finish a fight, but it was too late—”

“Why didn't you stop him? Why didn't you keep him here?”

“That's not—” Church finally pushes her away. “That's not how it _works_ ,” he says. “And you should know that! I offered,” Church adds. “But he...he wouldn't let me.”

Carolina’s arms hang at her side now. Behind her, a tiefling who has definitely seen better days says weakly, “York’s...York’s dead?”

“ _Hello, Wash._ ”

“Hey, Delta.”

Carolina looks over her shoulder at him. “Wash—”

He runs a hand through his hair, looking panicked. “What am I gonna do? W-what do we—”

“Don't spiral,” she says, going to him and taking his face in her hands. “Let your heart and mind be open. Wash, _listen to me!_ ”

The others around the fire watch all of this, hands on their weapons. Church turns to the half-orc. “Paladin, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Listen, there's a gate—”

But Church doesn't get to finish. He's interrupted by the glow of Caboose’s holy symbol, as Sheila spills out again.

“ _Church!_ ” Her voice trembles, her expression is stricken. “Church, the gate!”

And then he feels it, the rush of the world beyond trying to crawl into his own.

“We need to move!”

Sheila nods, turning to Caboose and cradling his face in her hands. “Don't be afraid,” she says. “Be brave. Protect him. Protect _them._ ”

“But I—”

“One more gift,” she says. “My last.”

“Don't leave me—”

“I'll never be gone, Caboose. But, eventually, you must be ready. Eventually, you must fight on your own.”

She leans forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“I am your guardian of faith,” she says.

Caboose smiles. “My shield.”

“Yes. That's exactly right.”

She disappears, and in one hand is a sword, and the other, a shield. Caboose turns in the direction of the gate, gripping both.

“Okay,” he says. “We can do this.”

There's a blast from his shield and Church feels a cool, protective energy fall over him.

Tucker laughs. “What did I tell you?”

Church smiles and turns around to take Delta — but Carolina already has him.

“Carolina—”

“You need to tell me how he died.”

“We don’t have time for that right now! Please, give me the sword, and let’s close the gate.”

Carolina holds Delta closer. Church can feel the undead starting to swarm.

“ _Carolina!_ ”

“ _He is blood of your blood,_ ” Delta says. “ _Trust him. Trust him with me, as York did._ ”

“I...I can’t—”

“ _Please_ ,” Delta says. “ _There isn’t much time._ ”

She looks from the sword to Church before handing it over. “Alright,” she says. “Let’s close the gate.” She turns to Grif and the others. “You guys ready for a fight?”

“Always,” Grif says, and draws his sword.

Church nods, gripping Delta tight as they move toward the gate. “Can we do this, D?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Delta says. “ _I believe that, now, we can._ ”

* * *

Together, they close the gate.

Carolina stands beside him and she and Delta speak their oath together. “Let that which has been opened be closed. Let those who walk the path of evil see the light. Let even creatures of wickedness find their way to redemption.”

“Let your heart and mind be open,” he says. “For eventually you will be forced to admit defeat.”

Carolina reaches down and takes his hand. “But not today,” she says.

Church looks at her and smiles. “But not today.”

 

* * *

 

Wash is falling.

He’d started falling when he’d seen Delta in the wizard’s hand, and realized his friend was gone.

But now, he is _really_ falling.

They close the gate, but Wash isn’t much help. He’s breathing heavy and gripping his sword. When he’d first joined his Order, he’d heard of Oathbreakers, how they were strong and wicked, their blood tainted with the betrayal of their sworn duty. How they turned the pain of rejecting their teachings into magic that no _good person_ should be able to use.

Until this moment, Wash had always thought of himself as someone _good._ Even when he’d struggled, even in the first days after breaking his oath, after what had happened to Donut — he still believed that there was _some_ goodness in him.

He doesn’t anymore.

His vision starts to black out around the edges, and his sword hits the ground at the same time his knees do.

And then there is silence.

In the stories he’d heard, the Oathbreakers were mad men, changed slowly over the years, carefully turned into something evil. Wash had not expected it to take hold of him so quickly. Perhaps it’s because he was never good at all, he thinks.

“No!” Carolina takes his hands in hers. The silence breaks. Voices exploud around him. “Don’t say that, _don’t say that_ —”

“...Carolina?” Had he spoke that outloud? He can’t see anything anymore. Only hear.

“You are _good_ , Wash. Don’t you _dare_ say otherwise.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

 _That’s Church_ , he thinks. Carolina’s brother. She’d mentioned him, once. Wash had known better than to bring it up again.

“Is he okay?” A voice he doesn't know. The voice starts to hum. A bard, but not Donut. Someone else. A cooling presence. Wash tries to turn to him. The song is helping, it’s soothing the burning in his veins. It isn’t enough, of course. But it’s something.

“He’s sick. Something...something happened—”

Wash chuckles, giving her hand a squeeze. “Just say it,” he says. “Don’t be scared.”

“I won’t call you—”

“ _Oathbreaker_ ,” Wash mutters.

Church says, “That’s not good.”

“We were taking him to York. York’s a cleric, his connection to Tyr was the strongest—”

“You need a cleric?” Church asks.

“We need a cleric of _Tyr_ , someone to renew Wash’s oath properly.”

“But...but it could be _any_ cleric. Theoretically.”

Carolina sighs. “Yes, I suppose it could. But if they’re not a cleric of Tyr, I don’t know—”

“What about Selune?” That soothing voice again. The bard. Wash really wants to know his name.

“Tucker—”

Ah. Tucker.

“Look, Caboose is a cleric now. Sheila made that pretty obvious.”

Church makes a noise of approval. “It could work.”

“But…” Carolina sounds...afraid. Wash doesn’t really like that. He doesn’t like that he’s frightening her. That whatever’s happening is _doing this_ to her. “But our Order. Our _oath_ —”

“I think you’ve run out of time,” Church says softly. “Wash. You can hear me, right?” Wash nods. “I need to know. My friend can help you, but you have to say it’s okay. You have to be the one to make this choice. I don’t...I don’t know what will happen when you do,” he says. “But I do know that _you_ have to be the one to go down this path.”

Wash can’t see him, but he can _feel_ Church’s spirit, his magic. He’s strong, and it makes _Wash_ feel stronger, just to be near him. He reaches out and grabs the sleeve of Church’s coat.

“I don’t want to end up this way. Whatever it takes—” He feels his body seize with magic he doesn’t _want_. “I’ll do it.”

“Okay,” Church says. “Caboose—”

“Oh, no. No, I can’t.”

“Caboose, come on.”

“But I’ve never...I’m not—”

“Yes,” Church says. “You are. And you can do this.”

Wash feels another presence — young, soft and kind. A dog licks his face.

“Freckles, _no._ ” Caboose sighs. “But what if it doesn’t work?”

“You can’t know until you try,” Carolina says.

There’s a beat of silence, and then everyone begins to move away. Everyone but Caboose.

Caboose leans in, and even though Wash can’t really _see_ him, the image of who Caboose _is_ strikes him.

A son, the only boy. A half-elf and a tracker. A holy man, but newly born.

A disciple of the Moonmaiden.

“Wash?” A large, warm hand cups his cheek. “I’m Caboose. And I’m going to do my _very_ best, okay?”

Wash nods. “Okay, Caboose.”

“...Right.” Caboose takes a deep breath. “Here we go.”

* * *

The darkness starts to fade. And Wash isn’t falling anymore.

But he isn’t where he was, either. He’s standing beside someone, and when he looks over, he has to look _up_. This, he knows, is Caboose.

Caboose looks down and smiles. “Hello.”

“...Hi.”

“I’ve never done this before,” he admits. “But I think it’s working.”

“Yeah.” Wash looks away and out across...wherever they are. “I think so.”

Caboose suddenly rushes forward. “Sheila!”

A spirit turns to face them, and she allows Caboose to embrace her. “I told you I wasn’t gone,” she says. “Just...a little harder to find. For now.” She looks at Wash. “Paladin,” she says. “You’ve broken your oath.”

Wash feels his face go red with shame, but Sheila reaches out, placing a cooling hand on his cheek.

“None of that,” she says. “The Moonmaiden doesn’t care what sort of life you led before. She only cares that you are ready to lead a life of devotion _now._ ”

“Devotion,” Wash says.

Sheila nods. “Your old oath is broken. Someday, perhaps, you may find your way back to it, but a new path must be forged. Can you agree to this, Fearnot?”

The sound of his virtue name being spoken aloud for the first time in _years_ surprises him. “...Yes,” he says. “I can.”

Sheila smiles. “Good,” she says. “Then remember this.” Her head falls back, eyes glowing blue as a voice that is her own, but also... _not_ , begins to intone: “You are an agent of the divine. Act with honor in pursuit of the greater good. For better or for worse, hold all the world to as high a standard as you hold yourself. Let your word be your promise. Protect the weak, and punish those who threaten them.

“Show mercy to your foes, but temper this with wisdom. Have honor, and be a beacon to all. Do no harm, but be quick to act. Protect those entrusted to you, and above all else—” Her head falls forward, and she stares straight through him. “Have courage, and be brave.”

* * *

Wash wakes up, and a beautiful man is staring at him.

“We got a live one!” he calls, and Wash recognizes his voice — Tucker. The bard.

Tucker helps him to his feet. “Thanks,” Wash mutters, and Tucker grins.

“Glad you’re not dead. That looked rough.”

“Yeah...where’s Caboose?”

“Asleep. You’ve both been out for a while, but Caboose is pretty new to this. Heavy magic really takes it out of him.”

Carolina is suddenly there, grabbing him and holding him close. “ _Wash!_ ”

“Uh, hi.”

“ _Gods_ , I thought you were gone.”

“Nope. All better now.”

She pulls back and kisses his cheek, his nose, his forehead.

“Alright, _alright_ ,” he says, laughing. “Take it easy, mom.”

She swats his arm. “I was _worried_ about you.”

“I can tell,” he says, and pulls her in to kiss her temple. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m just glad you’re alright.” She leans against him and they look across the camp together.

“So,” Wash says. “You...patch things up with your brother?” Carolina pulls a face. “Oh, come on. You’re not going to hear him out?”

“Can I trust him? He’s my father’s son—”

“You’re your father’s _daughter_.”

“No,” she says. “This is different. He’s...he’s _like him_. It’s so strange—”

“But he’s not,” Wash says. “You told me what your father was like. I can already tell, Church is different.”

Carolina pulls away. “I don’t know. I need...time.” She looks up. The sun is starting to rise, but most of their group is still asleep. Even Church is passed out next to Caboose, the two of them sharing a dog as a pillow.

Behind them, Tucker says quietly, “Church is a good guy. I don’t know a lot about your dad, but...Church helped me out, and he told me what your father was planning. He’s trying to stop it.”

Carolina looks at him. “You believe him?”

Tucker shrugs. “I don’t really trust or believe anyone, honestly. Big scary world and all, but...honestly? Yeah. I believe Church. I believe _in_ Church, if that makes sense. I don’t know, guy’s got like that big _destiny_ cloud hanging over him, you know what I mean?”

Wash nods. “Yeah, I think I do.”

Tucker sighs. “Anyway, I’m gonna crash. Glad you didn’t die, dude.”

“...Thanks.” Wash watches him head to the camp and pick a spot before immediately falling asleep. He turns to Carolina. “You _want_ to trust him. I know you do.”

“Of course I _want_ to. He’s my brother.”

“Then wake him up and _talk to him!_ ” Wash sighs. “Look, I’m exhausted, and I can’t do this with you. I’m gonna take a nap, and I expect you to make the right choice. Besides,” he adds. “I might be walking a different path now, but I remember what we were taught.”

Carolina groans. “Don’t pull this on me.”

“Anyone can walk the path of benevolence,” Wash says. He takes her hands and lifts her knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss there. “ _Anyone_ can be forgiven.”

He feels her gaze on him long after he’s picked a place to rest his head. He hears her cross the camp and rouse Church, and listens as the two of them go further into the woods to talk.

Sleep takes him, and, without thought, he reaches for the holy symbol he always wears around his neck. It feels different in his hand, and he opens his eyes for a moment to see a new crest, hanging from an old string.

When he looks across the camp to Caboose, he realizes that his holy symbol is gone.

And even though he took an oath of redemption years ago, for the first time in his life — Wash truly understands what those words really mean.


	5. pass without a trace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caboose decides on destiny. Everyone else splits the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey this is done! i had so much fun writing, and i hope y'all enjoyed reading it. there will definitely be more, but i have other school work and writing projects i need to finish before i dive into more of this particular au.

_Selune saw the corruption in her eldest friend, Tyche, and wept to redeem her, to save her soul. She drew forth a silver blade, and the reflection of her eyes was stamped upon it. She took the moonstone hilt, and plunged it into the earth. She declared this land, and the souls who lived upon it, good and pure._

_— from, The Song of Selune_

 

* * *

 

Carolina doesn’t want to admit it, but — Wash is right.

She wants to have this talk with her brother. She wants to know what his life has been like, what he’s been doing, what he loves and hates. They make their way into the woods, walking in silence until Church sits heavily on a large boulder, shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

“I should have let you rest,” Carolina says.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll...meditate. Later.” He gives her a smile and shrugs out of his coat, tossing it onto the ground in front of him, hooking a thumb through either suspender over his shoulder and tugging them off. “How old were you? When I was born?”

“A hundred or so?”

Church laughs. “I guess you weren’t expecting me.”

Carolina shakes her head. “Not at all. I came home and my — _our_ mother was pregnant with you. After she had you, though, she wasn’t...she wasn’t well. I stayed home to take care of you both.”

“But she lived for a while. Didn’t she?”

Carolina nods. “Until you were four. Father was...distraught. But I knew I had to make sure he couldn’t bring her back, so—”

“You performed the ritual.”

“Yes.”

“And I...helped.”

“You were so strong already. I just taught you a few things and it was enough magic to keep her soul bound to the astral plane. The ritual can be broken, obviously, but it’s harder to destroy that binding that it is to make it. I guess that’s why he’s doing what he’s doing.”

“Right.” Church looks down at his shoes. “After she died, though. You...stayed.”

“I did.” Carolina looks out through the trees, smiling at the memory. “York came looking for me. He stayed with us for a while, helped me take care of you. Our father wasn’t...he wasn’t well. You hardly saw him, but one day he started spending a lot more time with you and it made me nervous. York and I decided to take you with us. We’d raise you in the Order, we figured, but before we could leave—”

“He sent me away.”

Carolina looks at him. “I’m _so_ sorry, Church. I looked for years, but you—”

“It’s okay.” He takes her hand. “You’d never have found me. The school wasn’t...it wasn’t normal.”

“Did he come to see you?”

“A few times. Just to pay for my keep, I suppose. He’d make sure I was learning things properly. The last time I saw him, he...he promised he wouldn’t—”

“Bring her back?”

Church nods. “Yeah.”

Carolina squeezes his hand. “You know, he’s an ass, and he’s dangerous, but it’s really a shame you didn’t know him before mom died.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. They were so in love. She was so strong, and they were unstoppable together. It was a magic all its own,” she says.

Church looks at her sharply. “Was it me? Am I the reason—”

“ _No._ ” Carolina shakes her head, grabbing his other hand. “No, it wasn’t you. It was a lot of things. She wanted different things, and he was getting deeper and deeper into magic that we didn’t understand. Necromancy is one thing, there are _rules_ , but...but some of the things he wanted to do...spirit binding and summonings. It was too much. You were, and don’t take this the wrong way, Church, but you were an accident.” Carolina reaches out and cups his cheek. “A pretty great accident though.”

“Wow.” He looks down again. “I feel special.”

“Hey.” She forces him to look at her. “She wanted you. I wanted you. I think...I think even he wanted you. But it all happened at such a terrible time, and he was never the same, after she died. He just...he wasn’t the father he should have been for you, and I think he knew that. And he was ashamed.”

Church sighs. He really does look exhausted. Carolina thinks about telling him to just go back to bed, to rest and they’ll talk later, but —

“I asked York if I could keep him here. When he was dying. But he wouldn’t let me.”

“That sounds like him.”

Church nods. “He said if I did it once, it’d be easy to do again. Told me to take Delta.”

“...His body—”

“Burned it. Respectfully,” he adds. “And I was on the coast, so I...I scattered his ashes at sea.” He looks at her. “I’m sorry. I had no idea, and Delta never said—”

“Delta can’t do things like that. He can’t tell you something you don’t know, it just doesn’t work that way.”

Church nods. They fall into an easy silence, hands clasped as the sun rises high. Church says quietly, “So what do we do now?”

“Find him,” Carolina says.

“I've been looking for a while,” Church says. “Could take some time.”

“At this point, I've got all the time in the world.”

Church laughs. “Me, too.”

 

* * *

 

He isn't tired when he and Carolina come back from their talk. Church settles on the edge of the camp next to the still sleeping Caboose and watches the others start to rouse, building a fire and setting tea to boil. Church catches their names here and there. The elf, Simmons, coaxes the fire to life. He says softly, “Grif,” as the orc passes by, and takes his hand. They linger for a moment, speaking too quietly for Church to hear before Grif heads into the woods to check the traps for breakfast.

It’s an unspoken agreement that they’ll remain here for the day. Everyone is exhausted from the fight and being up until sunrise. Church doesn’t blame them.

Beside him, Caboose stirs and sits up, looking around the camp.

“You okay?” Church asks, and Caboose nods. Church taps his chest. “Your symbol’s gone.”

“Wash has it,” Caboose says hoarsely. “It belongs to him now.” He doesn’t say anything after that until Simmons starts cooking eggs over the fire, and he goes over to watch, Freckles keeping close.

“You’re gonna go with her.” Tucker says, sitting in Caboose’s spot. “Aren’t you?”

Church nods. “We have to find him. I’m sorry I can go with you,” he adds. “But we—”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Maybe Caboose will come.”

Church laughs. “That’d be fun for you.”

“He’s not so bad.”

“Annoying,” Church says automatically. “Too clingy. Overeager—”

“Wow, man. Don’t be too quick to overcompensate for some _affection_.”

Church sighs. “Look, if you take him with you just...just keep an eye on him.” Tucker raises a brow. “I just...I’m the reason he’s here. And he’s got this family and everything and I don’t want to see anything bad happen to him. Alright?”

Tucker nods. “Yeah, no worries. I get it.” He nudges Church with his shoulder. “You gotta be careful too, though. Seems like your old man’s fuckin’ with something he doesn’t understand. Just...I want to meet you again, and I can’t do that if you’re dead.”

“I won’t die.”

Tucker sighs and pushes himself to his feet. “Promises, promises,” he says, and goes to join the others for breakfast.

* * *

Church wants to tell Caboose to go with Tucker after they finish breakfast, but he’s got eggs in his mouth when Wash turns to Caboose and says quietly, “I owe you a debt.”

Caboose frowns. “No you don’t.”

“I do,” Wash insists. “You... _saved_ me, Caboose. There has to be something that I can do for you.”

Caboose sighs. “It wasn’t just me,” he mutters, poking at his eggs.

“No, of course. Selune...I felt her. I know she was there, and I’m going to do everything I can to serve her faithfully, I want you to know that.”

Caboose’s expression brightens. “That’s good,” he says. “You really should.”

“That _said_ ,” Wash says quickly, “I really want to do something for you.”

Caboose nods. “I get it.” He chews on the end of a rabbit bone before he says, “You can go with Tucker.”

Tucker chokes on his tea. “ _What?_ ”

Wash blinks. “Uh, okay.”

“Tucker’s going to the northern coast to find his son.”

Wash glances at Tucker who wipes his mouth on his sleeve, looking away. “Right.”

“And he should have someone helping him.”

Tucker says, “Caboose, I kinda thought you were going to go with me.”

“No,” Caboose says. “I’m not.”

Church clears his throat. “Uh, Caboose? We...we gotta talk.”

“Okay.” Caboose sets down his plate and follows Church away from the others. They walk for a bit until the voices fade. Caboose points out small things as they go — “That’s a sea oak, they’re very special. And those are fawn tracks. It’s a bit early for fawns.”

Church nods. “Yeah...listen, Caboose. You, uh. You can’t go. With me.” Caboose tips his head to the side, like he doesn’t understand. Church tries again. “Carolina and I need to get to know one another, and the things our father has been doing are...they’re _so_ dangerous, Caboose. And you’re...well you’re not...what I _mean_ is—”

“It’s okay,” Caboose says gently, putting a hand on Church’s shoulder. “I know I can’t go with you.”

“...Oh.”

“I knew when we met her. You have to be with your sister for a while. And I’ll see you again later.”

Church nods. “Uh, okay. Right. But you said—”

“I’m not going with Tucker either. That’s not where I’m supposed to go.” He looks back toward the camp. “I’m going to go with our new friends. Tucker will have Wash, and Wash has Selune, they’ll be fine.”

“There’s a lot of them already, Caboose. Are you sure—”

“Yes,” Caboose says. “I know what I’m supposed to do.”

Church nods. “Well...well, alright.” They start heading back. When they reach their little pile of things, Church leans down and says, so only Delta can hear. “...Should I?”

“ _This is a good time for the two of us to part ways, Church. It has been an honor to serve you._ ”

“It’s been an honor to wield you, Delta.” Church lifts the sword in his hand and calls out, “Caboose.”

Caboose turns. “Yes?”

“Look, no matter where you go, you...you should feel safe. I’ve never felt safer than when I was with Delta, so. Here.” He thrusts the sword out, looking away. His cheeks _burn_ as everyone turns to watch. “I want you to take him. He wants to go with you, I mean. It’s not like...it’s not—”

Caboose takes the sword and inspects it, pulling it from its sheath and looking it over. “Hi, Delta,” he says.

“ _Hello, Caboose._ ”

Caboose looks back at Church. “I know I haven’t known you for very long, but...you’re my best friend, Church. Thank you for this.” He sets the sword down with his things and pulls Church in, holding him close.

Church allows it for a moment, because it feels... _good._ Good to be hugged, to be touched and loved in some kind of way. He squirms after a minute though, ducking out of Caboose’s grip. “ _Alright_ ,” he snaps. “That’s enough of _that_.” He goes over to his spot by the fire to finish his tea.

Across from him, Carolina grins over the edge of her cup, and Church feels a little warmer.

 

* * *

 

Caboose had promised Church he was going to travel with Grif and the others, but — that isn’t the plan, and it _can’t_ be the plan.

Church can’t really _know_ the plan.

Silently, he stands. It’s their last night together, and even though Caboose wants to linger until morning, and to say a proper goodbye, he knows he has to leave. He casts a pass without a trace spell on his boots, quietning his steps. No one in the camp stirs, though he knows Sarge took first watch and he’ll be back from his patrol soon. Freckles is old hat at moving stealthily in the night, and they gather everything without much commotion.

Caboose lingers beside Church, who’s sleeping next to Carolina tonight. It’s obvious, now, that they’re family. Caboose looks at Carolina and thinks of his own sisters, missing them suddenly. He thinks how Church and Carolina have no mother, and he suddenly wants to be with his own, more than anything.

Wants her to rub his back when she hugs him, so small that he has to stoop down to hold her close enough. He wants to sit at her table and celebrate the Feast of Selune that he knows is coming soon. He wants to tease his sisters and feed scraps to Freckles from the table.

He wants to visit the place where his father is buried and tell him stories, and tell him about _wizards._

It hurts to stay, so — Caboose turns to go.

Tucker will be fine, he thinks, as he passes the sleeping bard. Wash isn’t too far away, resting well for the first time in so long. Caboose smiles when he sees his mother’s holy symbol around Wash’s neck, and thinks she’d be proud of its new owner. She’d be proud of Caboose, too.

“ _This is the right path_ ,” Delta says. “ _To grow, you must do so on your own._ ”

“Church will be mad.”

“ _To be fair, he is always mad_.”

“I guess.” He checks that the sword is buckled tight — he left his old one with Church, the mark of Selune carved just above the hilt, its scabbard a glossy shade of moonstone in the moonlight. It will serve Church well, Caboose thinks, just like Delta will be good for him. And it’s just another connection, just another thing that might draw them back together someday. Church has his destiny, but Caboose feels, for the first time in his entire life, that he has one of his own, now.

Someday, their paths will cross again. Until then, they wield borrowed swords and do what they must.

Caboose is just outside the treeline when a gruff voice calls out, “You goin’ somewhere, son?”

Caboose freezes. “Um. Yes.”

Sarge steps in front of him, head cocked to the side, mouth curled into a grin that Caboose likes. It’s friendly, even though Sarge is rough around the edges and wants everyone to think he hates them. Especially the half-orc.

“ _He hates that one the least_ ,” Delta says privately. Caboose smiles.

“I have to go,” he says.

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Please don’t tell Church anything.”

“I won’t lie if he asks, but, you keep your destination to yourself, and I promise he won’t find you. Besides, I think he’s got bigger fish to fry.” Sarge clears his throat and reaches into the odd little pouch he wears at his side. He’s a tinkerer, makes things when he’s sitting, or on patrol. Caboose has watched him. He’s starting to build some kind of mechanical companion. He almost wishes he _were_ going with them — Caboose wants to see that.

“Take this,” Sarge says, and hands over two flasks. “That red stuff there’ll set everything it touches on fire, so be careful. And that one there’ll get you out of a tough scrape. The blue one,” he adds. “Don’t go gettin’ ‘em confused.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sarge nods. “You be careful, alright?” He puts a hand on Caboose’s shoulder, gives it a squeeze.

“I will be, sir.”

“Alright then. Now get.” Sarge gestures up the road. “And watch for bandits, they’ll take you for everything you’re worth, son. And that’s quite a lot, from the looks of ya.”

Caboose grins. “Thank you, sir! I’ll repay you someday.”

“I’m sure you will,” Sarge says, and heads back toward camp.

* * *

Down the road, Caboose holds Delta in his hand and whispers, “I’m doing the right thing. Aren’t I?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Okay.”

“ _...You miss your family._ ”

“Yeah, but I can’t go back. Not yet. I’m not ready. I’m not...not strong enough. I miss Sheila,” he adds.

“ _You will see her again._ ”

“Is she like you?”

“ _Yes and no. She serves Selune, I serve the wielder of this blade. Our pasts, presents, and futures are very different, but we are the same, in many ways. She cares for you very much._ ”

“I feel the same way,” Caboose says. He glances up toward the moon, a beautiful waxing crescent in the sky. “But she’s always with me,” he says.

“The sky’s not going anywhere.”

 

* * *

 

“ _Tucker, get up!_ ”

“What the hell—”

Church is shaking him violently, pulling him into a sitting position. “Where the fuck is Caboose?”

“Dude, I don’t know—”

“ _Caboose!_ ” Church lets go of him and starts calling out, heading away from camp. “ _Caboose, where the fuck are you?_ ”

“Son, you are gonna call every damn bandit, raider, and _thief_ into our laps if you don’t shut the _hell_ up and sit the _hell_ down.” Sarge grabs Church by the collar of his shirt and pushes in down by the fire. “Your boy took off last night, caught while I was on my patrol.”

Church leaps to his feet again. “And you let him _leave?_ ”

“It ain’t my call to tell a young man what to do with his life. ‘Cept you, Grif, get out there and check those traps.”

“This entire experience is a _nightmare_ ,” Grif mutters, but he’s already on his way. Tucker stands as Wash is waking up nearby.

“What the hell—”

“Church is having a conniption.”

“Oh.” Wash yawns. “Thought it was an emergency.” They both sit on either side of Church while Carolina kneels in front of him.

“You said you didn’t want him to go with you.”

“I didn’t _mean_ for him to run off! And he said he was gonna go with them!” Church points at Donut, who mouths, _what the fuck_ in Tucker’s direction before sitting down to tune his mandolin.

Wash hums. “Sounds like a _lie_ , doesn’t it?”

“But he...he wouldn’t—”

“Dude, he just didn’t want you to freak out. Too bad he can’t use his fancy new cleric powers to see the future and know _that_ was a waste of time.” Tucker puts a hand on Church’s arm. “Look, he’s not a kid, okay? He made this decision.”

“He’s _alone_ —”

“No,” Tucker snaps. “He’s _not._ He’s got that _thing_ he calls a dog, _and_ he’s got Delta.”

Wash nods. “And the moon.”

“Right, and—” Tucker stops. “The _what?_ ”

Wash shrugs. “Selune. She’s pretty wild about Caboose. That was made fairly obvious to me.” He passes Tucker and Church a cup of tea each. “I’m not being reductive, I’m serious. Selune has her eye on Caboose.” He glances past Church. “And on you, it looks like.”

“...What?”

Wash waves his hand and a sword in its sheath slides across the ground and stops at Church’s feet. “This blade.” He stands and stoops down to pick it up. “It’s hers. Caboose left it for you, since you gave him Delta.”

“But I don’t need—”

“It was a trade,” Carolina says. “A gift. He wanted you to remember him, and he wants you to know you’re being looked after.” She laughs and takes the sword from Wash, unsheathing it and holding it up to the sunline. “It’s gorgeous. And look, here—” She turns the hilt toward Church and Tucker. “Her symbol.”

It’s seven stars and a pair of watching eyes. Church takes it.

“He left this...for me.”

Wash nods. “A connection. Useful or otherwise.” He finishes his tea. “Excuse me. I need to pray.”

* * *

Tucker hasn’t known Church very long, but...he likes to think they’re going to meet again. And it feels like it’s been years already that they’ve walked dusty roads and made shoddy camps together, trading stories in the night.

“Well, uh, Tucker. Be careful.”

“Will do.”

“If you sort of send a letter out from...wherever, I’ll probably get it.”

“Eh, I’ll see you again.”

Church laughs. “You really think that?”

“I do.” Tucker extends his hand and Church shakes it.

“Good luck with your kid. He’s...he’s got a good dad.”

“Wow. You complimented me. That was amazing—”

“I’m trying to have a _moment_ with you — fuck it. Forget it. I hope you and Wash fucking _drown_ on your way there.”

Tucker sighs. “Speaking of—” They both look toward the edge of the road where Wash and Carolina are talking with their heads bowed together, nodding and smiling. She pulls him in and kisses his forehead, and as they come closer, Tucker hears her say, “Please be safe. I love you.”

“I will.” Wash squeezes her hand. “I love you, too.” They go to say goodbye to Grif and the others with Church, and Tucker stands apart, watching everyone shake hands and pat one another on the back.

But Tucker just...has this _feeling._ They’re all going to be together again. Sooner, probably, rather than later. He knows this, and he’s glad for it.

And then it’s time to part ways. Tucker and Wash are going to travel with their new friends for a few days, before they reach the divide for the coastal paths. Church and Carolina are heading inland again, seeking new clues. Carolina wants to talk to Connie, the woman who told Church about the tower, and an old paladin friend.

“Tell her I said hey,” Wash says. “Oh!” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a handful of gold. “Ten, eleven—” He hands it over. “I, uh. I owe her.”

Carolina laughs. “Alright.”

She and Church wave one last time, and then they’re just two spots moving off in the distance.

The next three days are... _really_ fun. Tucker has a blast learning new songs from Donut, getting his ass handed to him by Sarge, hunting and tracking with Grif and Simmons. Wash is light, his jovial — there no longer this lingering _ache_ to him and Tucker’s excited to travel alongside him, looking forward to getting to know him better.

When they reach that fork between the coastal roads, Donut bursts into tears.

“Alright you big baby,” Tucker says, patting him on the back. “We’ll see each other again.”

“You think?” Grif asks.

“Oh, sure. It’s a small world, honestly. I run into people I’d rather never see again all the time. But, I’m a bard, and everyone hates me, so.”

“True,” Donut says. He strums a little on his mandolin.

“Thank you,” Wash says. “For everything.” He’s been with them longer, so it’s a bit harder to go. He hugs Simmons and shakes Grif and Sarge’s hands. He gives Donut a pan flute — “I’ve had it for ages, I never use it.” — and then he and Tucker are traveling north, and the sounds of Donut singing their goodbye song eventually fade away.

“Well.” Wash looks at Tucker. “This should be fun.”

Tucker laughs. “Yeah, man. It’s gonna be a fuckin’ _blast._ ” They start heading down the road, the silence between them companionable enough. “Hey, uh, I have no idea what I’m heading toward. Like...like my kid? I don’t know anything about him. He’s named after me, he’s like, not even a year old—”

“It’s okay,” Wash says. “You’ll be fine.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. Besides, you got me looking out for you. All I have to do is manage not to break this oath, and we’re good to go.”

“I’m glad you can joke about it.”

Wash nods. “Yeah. Me, too.”

 

* * *

 

Donut misses Tucker already. He’s been singing about it for fifteen minutes.

“Donut?” Grif walks toward him and puts a hand on his mandolin. “I’ll give you five gold to _stop._ ”

Donut puts the instrument away, but he says, “Wish we all could have hung out longer.”

“I’m good, actually,” Grif says.

“Same deal,” Sarge mutters.

Simmons is quiet. Grif nudges him. “Hey.”

“Huh?”

“We were talking shit about our new friends. You got all quiet. You’re not gonna _tattle_ —”

“Who the fuck would I _tell_ —”

“Aw, come on, don’t be such a baby—”

Donut sighs. “You two really are meant for each other.” He shoves himself between them and puts his arms around their shoulders. “Whatcha thinkin’ about Simmons?”

“Uh, nothing.”

“Come _on_ , tell us.”

Simmons rolls his eyes. “I was just...I was thinking. Do you ever wonder...why we’re here?”

Donut nods. “That’s deep.”

Sarge grunts. “Real thinker.”

Grif pushes Donut out of the way and slings his arm over Simmons’s shoulder. “You know, that’s a good question. Why _are_ we here?”

“Don’t you wonder?”

Grif glances at him. “Used to,” he says. “But, uh. Not anymore.”

Simmons smile grows so wide, Donut worries he’s going to break his face, and Sarge _gags._

“I think it’s _beautiful_ ,” Donut says. “And I’m going to run ahead and _sing a song about it_ —”

Grif growls and chases after him. “Donut! No more music!”

 

* * *

 

On their own path, Carolina and Church trade stories.

Church talks about school, Carolina talks about the order. She talks about York and meeting him, and what they were both like when they were younger.

“What about you?” she asks. “Have anyone?”

“Uh, sorta.”

“ _Sort of_ —”

“It’s kind of complicated. She’s, uh...she’s a little stealthier than most.”

Carolina nods. “Gotcha.” She nudges him with her shoulder, reaching behind her to tap her pack. “I’ve got a letter in here about a _really_ terrible bard I’ve gotta talk to about walking the path of redemption, if you’re interested in helping out.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhm. Lots of work I have to do, actually. Maybe we could make you a part-time paladin.”

“I’d be very bad at it,” Church says. “I hate people.”

Carolina laughs. “It’s not a job requirement.”

“...Alright. Part-time paladin, then.” He sighs. “What a family reunion.”

Carolina takes his hand. “We’ll find him.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “We will. And when we do, it’s going to get better.”

Church doesn’t look like he believes that, but she can tell he’s starting to trust her, and honestly, that’s all she’s asking for.

“Alright,” he says. “Let go of my hand, it’s not going anywhere.”

Carolina smiles and lets go, and they fall back into a comfortable silence.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @ weatheredlaw
> 
> blue team:  
> church: elf/necromancer; tucker: human/bard; caboose: half-elf/ranger
> 
> red team:  
> grif: half-orc/fighter; simmons: elf/druid, donut: human/bard; sarge: human/artificer 
> 
> freelancers:  
> wash: tiefling/paladin; carolina: elf/paladin


End file.
